Black Revival
by Fifth
Summary: COMPLETE. An anti-social war veteran stumbles upon a journal that reveals the truth behind the gilded, crumbling utopia that Adrian Veidt had created in New York. In a time of social apathy, he chooses to set his own examples, even if they are ruthless.
1. At Midnight, All The Agents…Aren’t There

Black Revival

By Two Fifth

Disclaimer: Don't own Watchmen. But if I did? Hurrrrmmm…

**With the movie in theaters and upon reading the graphic novel again, I was inspired to do a Watchmen fanfiction. Ironically, at the same time, I was watching Taxi Driver again, for the umpteenth time and realized the parallels between Rorschach and Travis Bickle. I wanted to create a character that's inspired by both, but has his own identity and level of thinking. Hope you guys enjoy.**

**Chapter 1: At Midnight, All The Agents…Aren't There**

"Hey Dan," he said.

Dan awkwardly greeted Morris with a nod. "Hey."

Morris peeked over Dan's shoulder and saw the manager. "What was all that about?"

"Oh," Dan half-stuttered. "Just, uh, just went and signed on for more hours."

"More hours?" his colleague nearly exclaimed. "Dude, you already work five days a week! Sometimes overtime!"

He only shrugged. "Yeah, well…"

Before he could speak any further, Morris spotted some of the other guys who were going out for a drink, and headed with them. However, he turned to ask Dan if he wanted to go, too, but Dan declined. In truth, he couldn't see himself hanging with the other guys, even if they did the same thing he did. It relieved him that Morrie wasn't bothered by it.

_December 12th, 2009_

_This city is gilded. It looks like bliss from the outside, but inside it rots. I can feel it in my ribs, in my gut. I can feel it in the air. Someone has to do something. At the peak of social highs in this city, how could anyone believe me? Am I just paranoid? The security is perfect. The healthcare is perfect. The educational system is perfect. Everything seems optimistic. But why do I feel so uncomfortable? How could anyone in such a perfect place feel bothered? Unwanted? Dissatisfied? Questions. Always have questions. This is a weakness I must not submit to._

Daniel Lee sighed and put his hands in his jacket to give them warmth before heading back inside the garage. Inside, he sighed and decided that he should probably just get started with his day instead of staying here, useless. He was working six days a week now, sometimes even going overtime into the day on some nights. His night shift was perfect, since there were less people to socialize with. The man did not like talking to people on the job, even though cabbies were some of the most sociable people in the city. He just didn't like it when people looked at him, not because he was horrible-looking, but because it broke the bubble. He would rather be a watcher than a participator. It was his role, he thought.

All the savages emerged at night, and he knew it. Even if the city was somewhat of a utopia, he knew that the title of utopia only concealed the crime. There was still crime every now and then, but overall, people were satisfied enough that they didn't feel that they had to murder or steal for a living. Which made it perfect, since it should only reveal true evil, right? Even evil had a way of disguising itself, unfortunately. Whores used to dress up scantily with a scandalous streak that made it so blatantly known that they sold their bodies for money. But today, it was harder to spot one. Most of them dressed up more like rich women from up town. No one from anywhere else could spot them, but to him, they were always easy to spot.

Ah, finally. The first fare of the night.

Daniel pulled to the side of the Harlem streets and waited for the passenger to get in. The passenger, a seemingly older man in his mid-40s, grunted his way through and Dan looked into the rearview mirror, getting a good look at the man before he was ready to go. The man came in with a large cardboard box of things. They seemed old, as if no one had touched them for years. Decades, maybe.

"Where to?" Dan asked. It was the only thing he could say without having to summon courage first.

"Dan?" the older man said.

Dan's eyes widened as he looked up to the rearview mirror again. "Huh?"

"Dan? Dan Lee? Is that you?"

The passenger was a rather overweight man with freckles, and has obviously seen more cheerful winters. That uncanny smile on his face immediately revealed his identity to Daniel, who only slightly smiled in return, though he was happy to see him.

"Hey, Seymour," Dan recognized with a grin. "It's been a long time."

"It has been, hasn't it?" Seymour said. "1023 21st Avenue, please."

"Got it."

The cab rolled forward but he had to stop at the nearby red light.

"Wow, I didn't know you're driving a cab now!"

Seymour used to be a neighbor back when Dan used to live in the suburbs outside the city. He was an editor for that old newspaper, The New Frontiersman, before it closed in 2001 when the terrorists destroyed the Veidt Towers and he published a scathing review of city security on it. Ever since then, he moved to the city in 2005 and began working for the New York Times, of all places. He was never one for fairness, anyway. Got that streak from his old boss, as he would always say.

"Yeah, I am," Dan replied.

"How's your mother?"

"She's gone."

A somber look crept up on Seymour's face. "Oh. When did she die?"

"About a year after you left the neighborhood," Dan told him.

"The lung cancer finally got to her, huh? I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, his voice almost monotonous. "It was her time."

It was probably the only fair death of a relative that he's ever experienced. Two of his cousins died in the Middle East on different tours, his father was killed in a pharmacy store robbery, his aunt and uncle were both murdered out on the west coast, and his grandfather died in New York when the catastrophe hit in '85. A lot of cosmic injustice in his life.

"You thinkin' of goin' back to school or anything?" he then asked.

"Can't," he replied. "I'm still waiting for military services to hook me up with a job."

He had served in the Middle East for a few years back when the United States issued a war on tyranny. Russia had stepped into the fight, as well, though alliances were still shaky. War had really shaken him up, and ever since he returned, things weren't the same. His father had called it "the only useful thing" he'd ever done.

"I'm sorry, kid."

The car stopped and Dan looked at the meter.

"That'll be $6.75, Seymour," Dan said.

Seymour pulled out a few bills from his wallet. After putting his wallet back into his pants, he shifted the bills for a little bit before giving them to Dan.

"See you around, man. Keep the change."

He lifted the box and got out the vehicle, leaving Dan sitting there for the moment. He thought he had heard a clunk as Seymour left, but ignored it anyway. Dan looked at the bills, and noticed that Seymour had given him two $20 bills wrapped in seven $1 bills. Sneaky bastard. Dan somewhat scowled at it, knowing that he couldn't accept the money. But, Seymour was gone, and he had given the money as a gift, so Dan accepted the gift and put the twenties into his wallet. He thought for a moment, and wondered how the conversation could have gone better. Maybe they could have exchanged numbers or something, and contacted each other every once in awhile. Seymour was like an uncle sometimes, but years of separation had worn the relationship down. He was just another face in this city of lies.

"Sir. Please hurry," a young voice said from behind.

She seemed to be in a rush, as if she wasn't supposed to be on this side of town or something. But this side of town wasn't supposed to be too bad. It was 'Veidt Secure' as everyone would put it, though in his mind, saying it loudly sounded more like mocking it rather than glorifying it.

"Hey, come on. These guys from class have been harassing me and everything. Please. Just drive."

Dan, without replying, stepped on the pedal and began driving, and even forgot to put on the meter. Instead, he kept glancing back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror, eyeing the woman in the back seat. She was probably a college student, age 22 or so; very young woman. She had a backpack. Yes. A student. Her beautiful brown hair was tied back in a bun and her black-framed glasses gave her a somewhat sophisticated, but sexy look. He glanced away every time she looked forward to see where the cab was going. She giggled a few times, too, which led him to think that she was playing with these alleged men who were chasing her. When he turned the corner, she stopped looking back and turned forward.

"Where to?" he asked monotonously.

When he saw her face, she was dazzlingly beautiful, her light brown eyes staring carefully into his dull, dark ones. She puckered her lips in thought for just a moment as he continued down the block.

"I guess I'll be headed down to 1534 Newland Heights."

Newland Heights. Rich territory. It was built as an extension of the suburbs a few years ago after Veidt Construction had finished work there. More than half of New York had been rebuilt since 1985, and it was very different than it had used to be. At least, that's what his mother had told him.

"Actually, make it Veidt University Apartments, West Section," she then said.

He nodded. "Alright."

She didn't do much while in the vehicle. After a few short moments, she pulled out her cell phone and started texting her friends. Every young person that he came across seemed to be fiddling with some sort of small gadget or device that it was distracting. Inhuman to him, almost. He believed that people should be acting like people and have the courtesy to make conversation with others rather than mouthing off on a cell or texting in the middle of a chat. But then again, him not using his cell phone much did make him stand out. He was used to it.

"You don't seem to be the type to be driving a cab," she then said, shutting her phone and looking up at him.

He looked up at her, but didn't answer, instead slightly smiling at her, much to his frustration. He hated that he had trouble making conversation with others. It's just that he never had much to talk about. Returning a smile, she looked back down to her phone and sat there with a somewhat bewildered look on her face, realizing that he wasn't replying.

"Don't talk to strangers?" she then asked.

He did, however, have the courtesy to answer a question whenever it was asked.

"No," he muttered. "I just…"

The woman beamed a million-dollar smile. "Don't like talking to people, right?"

"Uh…" he smiled again. "Yeah."

Her phone began to ring, and she picked it up to her ear. "Hello?"

So, it seemed like the conversation had ended. He sighed and made another turn, realizing that the Veidt Apartments were not far from here. Another minute or so and he'd reach the destination.

"Mom? Sorry, but I've got some studying to do. Finals coming up," she spoke on the phone. "Of course I'll be over for Christmas. I won't forget to come over. Yes, I know. You're the only family I have and all that stuff. Don't have to lecture me."

The vehicle then stopped as he sighed and looked at her in the rearview mirror again. She smiled. Again. But it wasn't one of those socially obligatory smiles that strangers had to give each other during encounters. She seemed genuinely happy, and wanted to share that happiness with him. Right?

"That'll be $5.25, miss," he told her.

She reached into her backpack and grabbed the money, reaching over to hand it to him through the plastic separation between them.

"Thanks…" she began, then looked at his name tag on the dashboard. "Daniel. Hey. That's my father's—"

That quick pause caused him to look up into the rearview mirror at her.

"Mm?"

She halted her words, realizing what she had just done, and from his judgment, she looked like she had just done something wrong. Immediately, she corrected herself. "Uh…m-my father's _brother's_ name. Daniel."

He raised an eyebrow. "I see. Strange coincidence."

"Quite," she said. "Well anyway, thanks, Dan. We had a good talk, didn't we?"

The raised eyebrow then twitched, as he considered the conversation nowhere near productive. It wasn't even finished. "Well…I wouldn't call it a great conversation. I barely talked."

"It was sarcasm," she noted. Her face, though, returned to a more optimistic expression. "But hey, you're talking now, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"By the way," she said, lifting a small brown-ish book from the backseat. "I think the last passenger dropped this. Just wanted you to know. It's probably a diary or something."

She passed it through the window, and as he grabbed the book, his fingers brushed hers, and his hand nearly jerked the diary from her grip out of surprise, though it was inconspicuous enough for her not to notice. His heart nearly raced.

"Thanks," he said, not even looking at her anymore.

"See you around, Dan," she then waved goodbye, exiting the cab and onto apartment grounds.

_December 12th, 2009_

_Evening shift. I met with Seymour again, as my first shift. Nice man. He seemed disappointed and slightly heartbroken when I told him about mom's death. Should have spoken more to him. The second fare was more interesting. There was a woman who entered my cab, probably about my age; probably a bit younger. She tried to make conversation while in the cab. I should have been more participating._

_She's gone now. Too bad. I should've asked for her name. The rest of the evening shift was shit, as usual. Mostly hookers and junkies and dealers in disguise as respectable people. What a country._

_I also received a journal today. Seymour probably dropped it. I'll likely look at it later to see if there are any crazy conspiracy theories in there. Then, maybe I'll consider returning it to him._

* * *

_What a weird guy._ Diana Hollis thought to herself as she made her way up the stairs to her apartment. _Doesn't talk much. Kind of cute, though._

The day had been interesting. She finished her classes for the day, then Jake Dixon sought to pursue her while she was studying at a nearby café, and they played cat-and-mouse through the streets for just a bit. Eventually, though, she won when she entered the taxi cab with that weird driver. He was probably from the poorer parts of town, though she never liked judging people for their status. It was common to judge others at Adrian Veidt University, for some of the greatest minds and richest students come here yearly. She just happened to get a free pass due to his parents.

Sam and Sandra Hollis were wealthy enough to be living in Newland Heights, and though she was supposed to go see them today, she felt that she had to stay in and study instead.

Diana remembered that her roommate wouldn't be home until later, and she threw her backpack on the table and plopped down on the couch, wanting to spend the entire evening alone on the cozy comfort of her couch. She stretched and yawned and realized that she could knock out at any moment, surprised at how tired she actually was. However, she grabbed the television remote and flipped on the small plasma TV in the corner of the room.

"Today, Mr. Adrian Veidt discussed fashion, and revealed his next release, Nostalgia II, the long-awaited follow-up to Nostalgia, released in 1985. More on that later. Next, the big question is asked: are our streets as safe as we think they are? There is a heated debate, from politicians to comedians to police officers, as to just how safe these streets really are."

She scoffed at the news and flipped the channel, only to find out that the exact same topic was being discussed.

"No, I _don't_ think that these streets are dangerous," said a politician in his monkey suit with his monkey tie. It seemed like his mother had dressed him up. "Look, we have strived for safe streets ever since Mr. Veidt rebuilt this city, and yes, although there are crimes every now and then, there's absolutely nothing wrong with the neighborhoods."

"Well, Mr. Ackerman," spoke another man, sitting across. "How do you explain the drug flow down in Brooklyn, or the prostitution ring in Harlem? Or the mysterious murders happening in the Bronx?"

"They cannot be true," the politician said. "We've had trustworthy sources—the sources that _you_, yourself, used—confirm that these accusations of crimes are baseless. They are without any valid proof."

There was nothing else on, so she kept the television on and watched the sunset through the sliding door on the balcony. The bright light beamed right through the clear door and illuminated the room with a cozy and lovely softness.

She thought about the rumors of organized crime in the streets. Could it be possible? The last murder reported was just a month ago, and that was done by a psychotic man who had too many drinks. How could murder be possible, too, especially with the fact that the city had passed the Civil Protection Bill, which banned all civilian firearms? Only the law could own guns in this city. To her, she enjoyed the lack of violence, but it also violated the constitutional second amendment. She didn't think Veidt was corrupt, but if his leadership of the town ever stained itself, the people would be at their complete mercy.

Very few people other than cops had guns. She just knew it in her gut. All it would take is for one man to go around with an endless supply of ammo, and it would be one of the greatest catastrophes in history. It scared her.

But, this was almost a utopia! Everything was so grand in this city. People were so happy that they could speak to each other with ease and optimism, right? She sighed, now having trouble taking a nap.

Then, she was afraid. She had never felt this kind of fear before. The future, and everything she thought she could see, was suddenly uncertain. If crime truly was rampant, then it could ruin this city forever. It led her to wonder how anyone in this city could be unsatisfied, and how even crime can happen when goodness has prevailed. Why does the world move so? It didn't seem to wait. Not even for its greatest city.

* * *

_December 13th, 2009_

_Morning. Just finished my shift, and I'm about to go up to my room. The society is a huge lie. They delude themselves with their huge egos and narcissistic elitism without considering the lives of the innocent. Today, I saw a pimp beating down on his hooker behind an alleyway while I was eating my dinner. Where are the night watchmen? Where have the arms that protect this city gone to? It was midnight. And the agents weren't there to round up anyone._

_This city thinks it is safe, and I cannot shout for help. Shouting never helps. The people need hard examples to shake them out of delusion and apathy. It's ridiculous for them to think of a perfect society. Veidt was awfully vain when he decided to rebuild New York. But he was stupid to think he could maintain evil. Evil always prevails. And the good must come to silence the evil. Someone has to do something._

"Where have you been all night?" asked the landlady, a single mother of three. "You been out with the lowlifes again? I need the rent!"

He was intimidated by her tone of voice that seemed to roar like a dragon that would bite his head off if he did not answer. "I work the night shift now, Ms. Palmer."

"I don't care if you're working the fucking night shift. I need the rent. You're $40 short of paying me back all those times you missed."

Forty bucks. That's all that Seymour had given him, and it would mean that he'd have less money to spend. However, he stayed deliberately behind on the rent so that he could spend the money he saved on something special. It would have to be something useful.

Dan reached for his wallet and took out the forty bucks that he owed her. Without thinking or considering that he might need the money later, she snatched the bills from his hand and went back into her room. Her face looked awfully pale, and her eyes awfully baggy. Maybe there was something going on.

His room was organized. It was not messy, chaotic, or even remotely dirty. That was because he rarely spent time inside his apartment and spent most of his time out there, in the city. He was sure that 75% of his apartment was covered in more dust than usual because he rarely did anything in it. It was a decent establishment, though the side of town he lived on was still fairly poor compared to the others. When he entered the room, he noticed that a letter had been slipped under his door. Strange, since mail would come to his mailbox on the ground floor. He glanced at the name and realized where it was coming from.

"United States Marine Corps Social Services Department," he muttered.

Immediately, he opened the letter and began making his way through the paragraphs. The first few lines revealed what the entire letter would be about, however. He frowned as his eyes went past the words:

_Dear Sergeant Daniel Lee,_

_We regret to inform you that your psychological tests for your law enforcement and military applications have returned negative. You are not fit to return to any kind of active duty, neither policeman nor marine, and will not…_

Blah, blah, blah. More useless government crap. He expected that the military would help him create a stable fund for college, but instead, they gave him the shaft a few years ago, when he proved that he was capable of extreme violence, far worse than any of the other soldiers. Maybe if he had been more careful, they would have given him a badge to wear.

_December 13th, 2009_

_It's daybreak now. Just got a mail from the USMC, and they did not validate my psychological tests. The letter felt condescending, like they were speaking to a freak that had no place in this world. Is that what I am, then? I feel useless._

_I'm sick of this place. It sits atop a high throne made of air, and they are only up there because of their delusional, pompous attitudes. The world moves on as people do nothing to stop the darkness from closing in. And I feel it closing its grip tighter each night I ride into the streets. I wish I could escape it all, but maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should just give up on people. Maybe apathy is the solution._

_No. This is wrong. Why should the lives of the innocent pay for the sins of the wicked? Someday, a real storm will hit this city. Someday all the scum will have something to fear. They are hidden in plain sight, mocking the system and using it to their advantage. Laughing at our faces while their pedophilic human trafficking and prostitution rings and cocaine habits poison our streets in plain sight, and no one is willing to do anything about it._

_Also, the landlady was eager to get the rent again. Her skin is pale as snow and she looked as sick as a broken whore. Possible substance abuse? I don't think her children would enjoy that._

Then, he saw the journal. Dan put his journal away and reached for the small book that the passenger had given him earlier. It seemed old, but well preserved, as if it hadn't been read in years. When he opened the journal, he found several Post-It notes on the inside; likely Seymour's. On the inside of the cover, there was a small note that read:

_Seymour—_

_This journal might be true, but no one will believe a psycho. Put this away and make sure no one ever reads it._

Dan then felt a sort of chilling sensation, the mystery resonating just from holding the journal alone. Might be true? The Frontiersman was not much of a newspaper, but they never said that their news was ever true, either. At least, not the opinionated pieces. True? That was too bold a statement to be made. It was bold enough to get him reading. And he started.

**Kind of slow, I know, but I'm just merely establishing the background. The story, hopefully, will pick up faster by next chapter. Please leave a review!**


	2. A Man Alone

**Hey, guys, I'm back again with Chapter 2, which is longer than the previous one. This chapter is almost entirely one-perspective, but lots of stuff happens. Hope you guys like it.**

**Note: I'm probably walking on a borderline M here because a few instances of the dialogue is very explicit other than the curse words. I hope to never cross completely into M territory, but who knows.**

**Chapter 2: A Man Alone**

_Rorschach's Journal_

_January 31st, 1984_

_Was remembering days when traveling was easier. They poison our streets. They mock our system. They are a cancer. Cops won't do anything to stop them. Too apathetic. Only want paychecks. What world is this where the guardians do not guard? Where the watchmen do not watch? Must promise that darkness shall not win._

_They are everywhere._

The journal was interesting. It was a window into the life of the infamous vigilante, Rorschach, who had disappeared more than 20 years ago. This journal was practically the only thing that kept his memory alive. It was strange, really, as the words, old as they were, seemed to jump right off the page at him.

The man sounded obsessive. Almost psychotic. From browsing alone, it looked like it covered about two years, chronicling every few days in the life of the vigilante. Maybe this was just one of many journals, and if this one fell into Seymour's hands 24 years ago, then it must be the most important one. Ironically, Dan found himself agreeing with most of Rorschach's points, about society and its ills. Today's society was just harder to analyze and diagnose. It still had the same problems, of course.

Dan put the journal away as his boss strolled into the office. A fat man whose large belt looked like it was the only thing keeping him from spilling all over the place, turning into a droopy pile of waste. Today was his off day, but the boss had called him into the office anyway. Since Dan did not have much to do, he agreed to come in and see if he could get extra pay.

"There you are," the dispatch said. "Lenny got into an accident, and the company is suing the other driver for it. Look, I need you out again tonight."

Dan shrugged. "Extra pay?"

"No," replied the fat man. "You'll be given another day off the job sometime into the week. Look, just do this for me, alright? And stop bustin' my balls about extra pay and all that shit. You practically swim in funds right now because you barely spend any of it."

"Surely, extra effort costs a bit more?"

"What the hell are you being paid for? You're getting normal rate! Jesus, if you stop your bitching we might get something done around here."

Dan nodded in submission to the aggression of his boss. "Okay, alright. Fine."

"Oughta kick you out. Jesus Christ," the boss sighed. "All right. Get outta here. We'll sort out the rest of your schedule."

Giving another nod, he walked out the door, only to hear his boss mutter a few derogatory statements.

"Fucking chinks always want more money," he mumbled lowly. "Better off hiring a spic."

And he had to take it. Dan was given plenty of trouble for his race in the city. Out of sheer hate or self satisfaction, others didn't mind making fun of him because he was rarely ever responsive. Whores, especially, would make coarse, racial (and sexual) remarks when he ignored them on the street, and thugs would make allegations that they would kill him with their "guns" when he wasn't looking. Those street punks have probably never even held a gun in their short little lives. Dan knew the power behind an M4A1 carbine. He knew what it felt like to fire from a perfectly new USP. He knew what it could do to lives.

Sighing, he kept the journal in his pocket and continued to his cab. Upon looking at the cabs for selection, he realized that his wasn't here. Had someone accidentally borrowed his? He looked around, not knowing what to do, and then stared down at his keys. The boss had given him someone else's keys. For the moment, he was frustrated and disgruntled, wondering why the boss would do that to him. It made him feel like a doormat.

He matched the number on his keys with the car number and walked over to the taxi. It was unkempt, the leather seats having horrible tears in them and the inside having a musty stench. Sickened but willing, he opened the car door and entered inside, feeling as though he had just stepped into a germ pool. He wasn't too crazy about keeping clean, but this was too dirty for him. However, before he could get out and clean the vehicle, the dispatch began yelling at him through the radio.

"What the hell are you still doing here, Lee? You're supposed to be gone by now!"

Dan inserted the keys and started the car, the engine sputtering like no one had even looked at it for months. As he left, he picked up the radio and asked some questions.

"Where's my cab?"

There was a long pause before dispatch responded. "What?"

"Johnson, where's my cab?" he asked almost lifelessly. "It isn't here."

"Oh," Johnson replied. "Well, see…Lenny was the one who had his shift this afternoon. And his car wouldn't start so I gave him yours for the day."

A sinking feeling submerged him. His shift was already starting off horribly, and he could not imagine it getting any worse.

"And he crashed it, didn't he?"

"No, he got crashed _into_," the boss asserted almost threateningly. "And that'll be enough from _you_, kid. I've got enough shit on my plate for the night, and I don't need you adding more to the pile."

Dan sounded calm as he exited the garage and headed out into the streets. "That was my cab, Johnson."

"I'll get you another one! Just stop your bitching! You never bitch at me and now you're breaking my balls about _every_ _little_ thing. Just shut up and do your goddamn shift."

_December 15th, 2009_

_My taxi is gone. Lenny borrowed it and fucked it up. I tried to get some closure with Johnson, but he was unresponsive, and even shooed me away like I was some kind of nagging child, or a small scavenger that had to wait its turn to get food. Johnson assured me that it was an accident, but I doubt it. Lenny was a heavy drinker, and he was a buddy of Johnson's. I must be getting the short end of the stick because I wasn't a friend._

_This taxi smells. It stinks of drugs, sex, and even blood. Just like New York._

_Read the journal today. It documents an entire two years, from 1984-85. It belonged to Rorschach, the vigilante who terrorized crime in the New York streets for years. It was men like him that kept the scum afraid. Fear is the only motivator here, and if a criminal could not fear death, then he must accept it. Maybe this is another sign. I can feel it growing. It sleeps within me like a time bomb. It hibernates like a predator waiting to wake._

"Sir, head over to 125 South Union Avenue, please," said a middle-aged woman, probably a day worker, headed home to the kids. It was a middle-class neighborhood, so he wasn't getting any trouble from the natives.

He nodded. "Okay."

Dan had not shifted in his seat ever since getting in it. The vehicle felt very alien because it wasn't his, so he felt an irritating discomfort loom over him every few minutes or so. The entire time he was tense, and all he looked forward to was the end of his shift. He wanted to read more of the journal.

"Oh my God," the woman suddenly said. "Please stop here. Please stop."

Confused, he pulled over to the sidewalk to the honks of other cars and looked over his shoulder to the woman. She looked very disturbed for some reason. After she muttered to herself a few times, he sighed tried his best to help her.

"Can I help you?" he asked, offering his assistance.

She looked at him, surprised by his seemingly out-of-the-blue question and gave him a repulsed expression and threw a few dollars in through the window. "Here. Just take this. I have to go."

Her words were hastily spoken, though he couldn't register why. Why was she in such a hurry to leave? It didn't make sense to him that people would just leave the cab so easily when he could drive them to their destination.

"Just tell me what's wrong."

"I'll tell you what's wrong," she said. "Bringing your shitty cabs up from _whoretown_, that's what's wrong!"

She left the cab and slammed the door, obviously sickened with herself that she had entered the cab earlier. He was still bewildered and confused, now suddenly frustrated that these people were so rude. Dan watched his customer march onwards toward her destination, losing him the only fare he's had tonight.

Curious as to why she was so angry with him, he drove the vehicle down an alleyway behind some apartments and stopped, hoping to get a look at the problem in the backseat. Lenny never did take great care of this car, anyway, and now _he_ was getting the punishment for doing so. He opened the backseat door and upon glancing at it for the first time, he felt sickened. There were heroin syringes resting on the bottom, bloodstains on the seats themselves, month old food well-preserved just under the seats, and even a used condom on the floor, looking as though it had just been used yesterday.

Dan backed his head out from the cab to get a whiff of fresh air. For a moment, he felt like he was going to puke. The stuff didn't smell because Lenny probably sprayed his vehicle with aerosol formulas all the time. When he took another moment to catch his breath and composure, he looked around and decided that these seats were too ruined and scarred for just cleaning. Lenny had given up on it months ago, it seems. He looked around for another moment, and when he was eyeing the front seat again, he noticed a bump on the floor of the passenger's side. Moving his inspection from the backseat to the front, he placed his hand on the bump and tapped it a few times to make sure that it wasn't a part of the car. It seemed to be somewhat solid.

When he noticed that the mat could be detached, he pulled it over and when the entire mat was pulled off, all was revealed to him.

Kilos. Five, to be exact. Five kilos of heroin in the taxi cab. Suspicions zipped through his mind like bullets, and he was wondering if his own taxi company was a front for a heroin ring. It had to be. Though he wasn't sure, he was shocked to know that the corruption was so close to home. It wasn't in the back alleyways of Harlem or the dank streets of Brooklyn. It wasn't inside the biker bars or strip clubs or restaurant fronts. The gangsters didn't need that anymore. It was everywhere.

_Rorschach's Journal_

_February 5th, 1984_

_Saw Dreiberg in the streets today. He couldn't see my face. He was ever committed enough. Never forceful enough. Couldn't last. Cops in the city just the same. Can't find location of missing woman. Have put several criminals in hospital. Will put more. Until they give in. Until they compromise._

_I fear for us and for our existence. We are needed. Only ones committed left are me and Comedian. Works for government now, with all those slimy political pundits and their selfish agendas. Thought entire world is joke. Fought anyway. Fought for us. Never gave scum a chance. The world needs men like that. Men who never blink, never compromise, and never surrender. Must set example for others to follow._

He was going to drive to the New York Times and have a chat with Seymour about the journal. He needed the opinion of a man who knew one of the best concealed secrets in history.

_December 15th, 2009_

_I'm driving to the NY Times right now. I have come close to this city's sins. Uncovered several kilos of heroin in the cab today. I feel dirty, like I'm some sort of courier for the drug lords. I must research. If I am to take action, I must be smarter than a vicious criminal. I must have patience. I must be tactical. I need more time. Not yet._

The traffic was slightly heavy, and Dan had switched on his "off duty" sign. He grew impatient after a few short minutes, realizing that the Times would be closing soon. Taking a turn towards a different route, he drove fast. But, it was likely too fast, since after that turn, sirens behind him sounded off. Cursing to himself, Dan pulled over to the sidewalk and waited for the cops to give him his ticket. The daylight was dying. Buildings cast shadows over the city streets, illuminated by the streetlights down below. He had to hurry.

"License and registration, please."

Dan did as he was ordered, though he was impatient and eager to leave. The adrenaline pumping through his system didn't help as he tried to calm himself down to avoid any unwanted attention. But he did nothing wrong, right?

"Sir, I'm gonna need you to step out of the vehicle."

Surprise. "What?"

"Because you're a taxi driver, you will have to answer a few questions regarding street safety as a part of the 'Veidt Safe' regulations. And please, be entirely honest. We need you to voice your opinion. That's all."

It sounded ambiguous, but Dan nodded and agreed to the cop's orders. He stepped out of the car with his hands up, but the cop told him not to do so, since it wasn't an arrest. It was, according to the cop, a "service questioning session." However, as Dan headed to the police car, the cop's partner stepped out and headed toward his, with flyers in his hands.

"It's a part of 'Veidt Safe,' sir. You have nothing to worry about."

Suspiciously, Dan nodded. "Alright."

The cop stood so that Dan would have to keep his back to his own vehicle.

"So, first question," the cop started. "What do you think of the environment you work in? Do you think there are any problems? If so, please list them."

For the moment, Dan felt the right to voice his opinion more than any other time he was able to do so. Was this cop really going to listen to him?

"Well, yeah, I think there are tons of problems," Dan said, in a more sociable manner. The cop, who seemed to be cautious of Dan's silence beforehand, was now more relaxed.

"Like?"

"I mean, you guys should be down here at the streets more, you know?" he told the cop. "There are many things wrong with this city. I drive around, and everything…it stinks, like this is a home to savages or something. All the gutters and alleyways are full of whores and junkies and dealers that no one really seems to care about. They're leeches off the fuckin' society, for God's sake. And I'm not disrespecting the NYPD or anything, sir, but it's really fucking humiliating when I have to wash the cum off the backseat after dropping off some horny druggie who couldn't get any pussy that night, believe me. Someone should just clean it all up and make sure the streets are safe again. And when I drive these scum lowlifes around, these sick, venal vermin, these…these _fucking_ _parasites_…I feel like I'm just spreading the disease."

There was a long silence as the pencil scribbled on the page.

The cop seemed to be taking this down, and he swallowed, seemingly overwhelmed by the minor rant that Dan had given him. He took another moment or two to finish up writing, and looked up at the driver, who seemed to be a lot happier now that he had time to express his opinion.

"So, did you get all that?" Dan asked with a deep breath.

"Y-yeah," the cop nodded. "I did. Thank you for your cooperation, sir. These streets will be 'Veidt Secure' now that you have given us your opinion. Have a nice evening."

The cop's partner had returned and Dan was free to leave. Voicing his opinion felt good, though he guessed that the cop was somewhat overwhelmed by his response. It took a few moments of satisfaction to realize that he had to meet Seymour at the Times. Dan glanced at his watch and hurried back into his vehicle. When he got in, he removed the fliers that the cop's partner had put in and realized that something was different. Something was wrong. He lifted the mat on the passenger's side and, to his suspicions, the heroin was gone.

* * *

He was getting close to the Times now.

Dan drove past the Veidt University Apartments, and it made him think of that woman who got into his car the other day. He never asked for her name. It had occurred to him that she actually seemed interested in speaking with him. Judging from that thrilling moment with the cop, he suddenly felt like he could take more risks. He felt like breaking that social bubble that he always put up. All it would take is a step, right?

Alas, after thinking it through, he shook his head. Nothing would change. Leaping forward would be stupid, and he had more important things to worry about, like the missing kilos of heroin inside Lenny's cab. When he thought about it some more, he was sure that the cops had something to do with trafficking that heroin. Was the entire system being used?

He thought about the heroin being chopped up and packaged and sent to all corners of the city, each one bringing a druggie his next sensation and the another one bringing a child his first high and another one to his landlady who often scratched her arm. No one deserved this.

His thoughts, however somber they may be, immediately ceased when he saw her again, walking with a group of her friends, and chatting like the world was a heavenly place. For a moment, he forgot about the murderers, and the cops who did nothing to help the innocent. He forgot about the anger inside his heart and instead watched her.

When the traffic halted because of a red light, he sat there, watching her walk by. No one could touch her. No one could understand how alone she was, except him. But he couldn't tell her that. He had a mission.

Then she saw him. He thought he had turned to face traffic, but he was still gazing at her. She waved and mouthed, "Hi," to which he returned with a shy wave of his own. Her friends looked at him judgmentally, but he didn't care. They were not like her.

Car beep. Green light. He had to go.

* * *

"Wha…? Where the hell did you get this?" Seymour asked, nearly spitting out his coffee. Dan sat in his chair and watched his reactions accordingly, as if calculating something.

_"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Benitez shouted._

_Dan took a sip of his beer, sitting in the ruined table that just managed to lay standing in the aftermath._

_"What?"_

_"What the hell are you doing over there, man?"_

_He put one of the cigarettes into his mouth and searched for a lighter, ready for a smoke in the hundred degree desert heat._

_"Those my fucking cigs?" Benitez asked._

_Dan nodded. He searched around, but couldn't find a light. It was hard to find one in this desolate place._

_"Hey, come on, yo, I found them!"_

Dan took a steady sip of his coffee and shrugged. "You dropped it. I picked it up."

"Jesus Christ, Danny…" replied the man. "This stuff is dangerous, even if it's written by a psychopath. You could probably get killed by Veidt himself if you accused him appropriately. You know how much Rorschach's image was crucified after New York was rebuilt? Do you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't his image already broken enough?"

"Even so, people who were loyal readers to the Frontiersman had hopes in men like Rorschach. The general public didn't like him. But, those who knew what he stood for comprehended why he existed."

"So what happened?"

"According to the journal, Veidt was behind the murder of the Comedian back in 1985. He triggered the shitstorm that obliterated half of New York, too. I was only a teen back then, and I worked for the Frontiersman. When I read the journal, the boss told me to put it away and swear not to speak of it ever again."

Dan watched people go by, and observed their interactions and intimacy before speaking again. "Why, though? There's freedom of press, isn't there?"

"It could backfire on the 'utopia' that Veidt was going to rebuild. We were going to get a lot of spending money. And we did. So my boss saw it as the ultimate bribe, and he shut up. Told me to shut up too," Seymour told him. "I'm probably the only one in the world who knows about that journal."

_"You sure about that?" Dan asked._

_His comrade chuckled._

_"Here," Benitez offered, pulling out his lighter._

_Dan passed one of the cigarettes to his friend and they both shared the small bit of piece in the chaotic day. They were sweating like track athletes, but it was considered cool at the moment. Stripped of his gear, Dan was enjoying his rest break from the day's operation, and so was his colleague._

_Benitez spotted a three-legged dog hopping its way across the street. Indistinct shouting in Hebrew emerged from stores and homes, but they weren't there to help anyone. The operation had passed, and the people were safe to come out. The Mexican man laughed, pointing at the dog._

_"Yo, look at that, man," he said. "Dog can't even walk. Let alone fuck."_

_The dog limped on, as if it had to keep going. As if it needed to suffer until someone came along and put it down. Someone had to do it, but no one really cared._

_"The dog has to limp on until someone kills it," Dan replied. "Or until it's dragged down by its handicap."_

_He could feel the dog's whimpers as it came past them, likely searching for food or a safe haven. Maybe one of the journalists would be humane enough to take care of it._

_"Everything is crippled," Dan added. "By a disease."_

_"And you don't care about it?"_

The taxi driver chuckled. "No. I do."

"You shouldn't be wasting your time with this mumbo jumbo. You should be out with friends, you know, getting laid, getting drunk, having fun. You're a kid. You should be having the time of your life, not spending your life in depression."

At a time like this? At an _opportunity_ like _this_? Dan wasn't going to buy Seymour's reasoning.

He put his hand on the journal and stared Seymour right in the eyes. "Seymour. This isn't right. It's wrong. I might have killed people in the war, but I would _never_ risk the lives of the innocent to influence the guilty. I would never do that."

"Walter Kovacs didn't, either," Seymour said. "And he's dead."

"So you don't believe that the truth should be revealed? You don't think so?" Dan asked. "Look, I've seen this city. Nothing's changed much. Everything's just harder to find. The game hasn't changed; only the rules. They_must_ be punished," he asserted. "Those…those conniving assholes and their self-righteous plans. They were wrong, and they must pay."

Seymour sat back in disbelief and seemed to squint at him. Dan felt his eyes pierce through him and he leaned back, as well, trying not to look in the man's eyes. Suddenly, Seymour felt that there was something different in the boy. It lived in the deepest spot in the pit of Dan's stomach, where it was dark and dank and sinister. And it was hungry. Perhaps even more so than most of the vigilantes that Seymour had known.

_"What happened to all that 'world is unchangeable' talk? Didn't you say that it was the only thing that keeps you going?" Benitez asked. "Like you don't care or somethin'."_

_Dan sighed, halfway done with his cigarette. A woman carrying her child, who was blown to pieces by artillery fire, cried through the streets and eventually passed out while no one came to help her. He only watched._

_"I thought I didn't," Dan said._

_"If you did, then you'd help out that woman over there," he countered Dan._

_"This place is beyond salvation," he replied. "I would rather kill the wicked to save the innocent. Not save the innocent and spare the wicked."_

_Benitez laughed and wiped the sweat from his forehead, swinging his M4 over his shoulder and turned around to face the store. It hadn't been obliterated yet. He went through the open door to get himself a drink, while Dan only sat outside, finishing his beer and tossing the bottle against the brick wall nearby, shattering it utterly. The dog was still limping. Was it bleeding? Benitez emerged from the bar and sipped on the cold beer while shouts from inside followed._

_A rather old Arabic man came out with begging gestures at Benitez, who would rather enjoy his drink than help him. His little daughter stayed at the doorway, crying as though she had been crying for the past five hours. She couldn't have been more than five years old. The man was still begging Benitez._

_Dan turned around and walked up to the little girl, squatting down to meet her face-to-face. He reached out and grabbed her, lifting her up and embracing her as though she were his little cousin. Reaching for his pocket as he assuaged her, he pulled out a lollipop and showed it to her, giving her that reassuring smile, not wanting her to feel an ounce of pain for one moment. Benitez finally faced the man and gave him some money for the beer he had taken._

_"Shh," Dan embraced her. She sniffled and hiccupped as she put her arms around him, her little breaths pressing against his shoulder._

_The storeowner smiled at Dan's gesture of gentleness. Benitez finished his cigarette and tossed it away. The girl stared into Dan's eyes, her own eyes still red from the tears. She smiled._

"You've changed," he said to Dan.

And for that moment, he looked genuinely afraid.

Dan felt an intensity that hadn't touched him for years, and it surfaced with an appetite. At last, he realized that he had the power to do anything, and everything. He wished that he could put all the scum in this city into his hands so he can crush it. There was so much anger in his spirit that he could burst, but he tried to appear passive about it. It would be no use to him, losing control.

_It was only a minute later that Dan found himself backed up against the brick wall, blood spattered all over his undershirt and sprayed across his face. He could swear he felt her brain matter fall on his hands when the bullet hit her from yards away. The father was already down as Benitez dragged Dan along. He was having trouble breathing as he stared in disbelief at the dead girl on the ground, her body lifeless and jagged like a twisted Adrian Veidt action figure, except without the head._

"_Dan! Dan! We gotta go!" Benitez said. "We gotta go now!"_

_The dog was still limping, trying to make an effort to get to safety. Trying to survive as his injury ate away at him like some parasite._

"_The girl…" Dan said, coughing from the dirt that had kicked up. "Benitez…the girl…"_

_The dirt obscured his vision as Benitez pulled him to safety into the large social building where the rest of their squad was located. Dan was still unresponsive while the entire squad shouted and awaited orders, the captain right in front of his face, yelling at him. It wasn't the cruel kind of yell that superiors would give you. It was more of a yell out of urgency. After a little bit, the captain sighed and put his hand on Dan's shoulder._

_The words were muffled. The captain's face suddenly looked sorry and reassuring, then seemed to order for him to stay here, at the social plaza. Benitez was ordered to stay. His words were muffled, as well. Dan shut his eyes and all he could remember was the girl's face, forever etched into his mind. Benitez came over and put a hand on his friend's shoulder, a rare brotherhood between the two._

"I don't think it's healthy for you if you keep thinking about it," Seymour told him. "But that's just my opinion. Maybe you're right. Maybe Veidt's plan was injustice. The lives of millions of people, wiped out in an instant. Nothing can justify that."

Dan nodded. He knew that Seymour wouldn't approve of him reading the journal, but Seymour understood. He understood the rage that drove Dan. But there was something else behind the young man that he couldn't put a finger on; something blacker than the darkest corners of the earth. It wasn't Dan's desire for justice, but that blackness that scared him.

Before Seymour left, he gave Dan a worried glance. "What happened to you?"

_"It's nothing," Dan said. "I'm fine. Can we just leave it alone, please?"_

_"You sure, man?" Benitez asked._

_Another few hours passed before the gunfire ceased. Benitez seemed to be on his toes the entire time._

_The captain then stepped into the large room, still dressed in his desert BDU, looking as though he had just returned from scouting. The battle didn't last long, but Dan felt stupid for not clearing his head sooner so he could join in suppressing the insurgents. A hand patted his shoulder, and he looked up._

_"You okay?" the captain, not much younger than 30, said. "I understand what you're going through."_

_No. He didn't. He would never understand._

_"I should get cleaned up."_

_The captain nodded. "We'll get to the nearest hotel. Hey. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"_

"It's nothing," Dan said. "Nothing at all."

"Sure doesn't sound like nothing. You look awfully tense."

Seymour turned around and began walking a few steps, but faced Dan one more time, as though he had something important to say. Dan didn't even look up, like something was seriously bothering him.

"It's rumored that Rorschach died in Antarctica. No one ever found a body."

Dan looked up. "Men like that don't die old and defeated."

"Rorschach never died," Seymour said. "Walter Kovacs did."

"Your point?"

"1423 Mobil Avenue."

And he left. Dan sat alone.

**And I'll leave it there. Next chapter should have a more interesting turn of events. Thanks for reading, and leave a review! I'd like to hear your thoughts.**


	3. Renaissance

**So I'm back with chapter 3, which is shorter than chapter 2, but is probably the most important of the bunch so far. It's more psychologically focused, but still leaves enough mystery behind Dan to leave readers slightly baffled (I hope). Enjoy, guys.**

**Chapter 3: Renaissance**

_Rorschach's Journal_

_June 25th, 1984_

_Summer heat. Only going to get hotter. Makes the city stink with a rotten stench so strong that maybe even our apathetic God can smell it. Missed my face today. Walked with disguise, a freckled façade that is so pathetic I cannot stare at it in the mirror. Whores throw themselves at me. I decline. They will never understand me. No need. End result is all that matters. Another safe night. Another life saved. No contact needed. No hope for me left. Gone am I to the depths of hell, scraping off the filth it produces. They did this to me._

_Saved beaten whore yesterday without face. Everyone fears Rorschach. No fear of Kovacs? Thanked me. Kissed me on the cheek. I pulled away with a growl. Broad daylight. Disappeared. Annoyed. Too close. Too close for comfort. This city oozes with bad intentions, giving birth to crack dealers collecting hard earned paychecks every first and fifteenth from conceited, inconsiderate people who are just as guilty as the dealers themselves. They are a plague._

He still hasn't gone to the apartment, and it's already been a week. Today he had work to do, and his shift was anything but peaceful.

It took him the diction of an inspiring therapist to convince Johnson to switch cabs with one of the unused ones they had in stock. Johnson was reluctant, but he seemed to be in a good mood and allowed Dan to take it while Lenny was recovering in the hospital. Dan had strong suspicions that Johnson was a part of the drug ring that, apparently, the cops were involved in. If not Johnson, then Lenny, at least. Dan wished that he could just grip them by their mustard-stained shirt collars and demand an answer before beating them to death by the bone of his fists.

But it was the Friday night schedule. People are getting home from five to eight, and those are the hottest hours. They were going home to families and friends who had been there their entire lives and supported them in every endeavor with love and appreciation. They were going home to what they took for granted. Dan shook his head to clear his mind. He was just rolling by a nearby movie theater when he spotted a fare, a silhouette in front of flashing neon lights waving at him with the utmost energy.

When he stopped the car, the two girls giggled their way into the backseat, both making acknowledging "oohs" at how elegant the cab smelled. Dan felt a slight sense of pride rise in his chest, but instead looked at the rearview mirror.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Dan? Is that you?" she said. "Hey, Dan!"

His eyes lit up, letting the comfort sink into his body just a bit. "Hey."

"Adrian Veidt University Apartments, please," said the other girl.

It was her again. Strange coincidence. Dan smiled into the rearview mirror and she smiled back, excited to see him as if she hadn't seen him in months, or even years. He still hasn't asked her for her name, but as soon as she turned to say something to her friend, he knew that she probably wouldn't want to talk to him anyway.

"Dan," she then said, pointing to her friend with the intention of introduction. "This is Jody."

They came up to a red light, and he turned to face her. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

He nearly stopped himself, wondering why such a friendly greeting would come so naturally. Despite this, her friend smiled and waved at him anyway, an exchange of friendly gestures.

"Oh, and the name's Diana," she finally told him. "Sorry I didn't tell you all this time. Isn't it weird that this is the third time we've seen each other coincidentally?"

"No way," remarked Jody. She looked at Dan. "Really?"

Dan shrugged. "Yeah. Pretty strange."

The apartments already. Why were the moments so short? Dan felt an agonizing need to speak with someone other than his journal every once in awhile, an unsatisfied desire that he wanted to either satisfy or successfully repress. He garnered issues with the latter. The door opened, he was prepared to read the price.

"That'll be four, guys," he told them solemnly.

"Oh, just me, thanks," her friend, Jody, said, waving a crisp dollar bill through the window. "Here's five. Keep the change."

He turned his head around to meet her gaze, and he smiled an obligatory smile. "Thanks."

The door clunked shut behind him and he had to reset the meter. His eyes found their way to the rearview mirror and he acknowledged the beautiful woman in the backseat. She seemed immature. Innocent. Pure. A beacon of hope in the barren, desolate jungle.

"So," Dan said, his eyes self-consciously diverting from her picture in the mirror, "where can I take you, Diana?"

"1534 Newland Heights, please," she said.

Newland Heights. It was the place that she wanted to go during their previous personal encounter. Rich territory. He remembered her speaking to the phone with a mother, from what it seemed, and that she had to study instead. Hard working person.

"How are those finals coming along?" Dan found himself asking, trying to strike up a conversation. He figured it would be logical to ask someone a question that was more relevant to _them_, because most people, he noticed, enjoyed talking about themselves instead of something else. It made people feel more special; certainly his boss, Johnson. But, he never had much to talk about anyway, except for this.

"Just finished today," Diana nodded. "Celebrated with my friend by going to a movie."

"Oh yeah?" Dan asked. "What movie was it?"

Her eye darted away as she shook her head. "You wouldn't know. I mean, you're an easygoing guy and I don't think it would be your type of movie."

"No, really," he insisted with a deeply serene, calming voice. "Tell me."

"_Exit_," she revealed. "Have you seen it?"

A faultless simple frown emerged from his lips, revealing to her the innocent notion that he had no time to see movies. "No. I haven't had time."

"It's kind of a dark movie," she stated. "Friend wanted to see it. Well, I like all kinds of movies, but I tend to lean more towards these kinds."  
"What's it about?"

A red light. He was enchanted by her delicate movements, from the way she brushed her hair to the way her eyes stared back at him. When she didn't answer after a few moments, Dan cautiously pressed the question.

"Well?"

"It's a crime movie," she told him. "It's about a killer-for-hire who builds this relationship with this woman reluctantly…and after she dies at the end, he snaps and abandons his selfish apathetic morals for something much more disturbing."

"And these new morals?"

She smiled and politely declined. "I don't want to spoil it for you."

"It's not like I'm seeing it anytime soon," he said.

Her smile held an entire minute or two, as the motioning of her eyes meant that she had an idea.

"Tell you what," she said. "How about we go see it some time?"

His heart stopped just as the light signaled to go. A slight twitch in his eyebrows told her that he was hesitant. When it seemed like he was too afraid to answer, her smile disappeared, taking a more troubled, serious turn.

"No? Yes?"

Snapping out of his slight trance, Dan nodded. "Yeah, sure. Haven't been to the movies in awhile."

"Okay, then," she returned to her enthusiastic mood. "How about Monday? I've got no classes that day."

"Monday's my off day, so that would be nice," he replied, continuing out of the smaller city area and into Newland Heights, built on the hillside left after the catastrophe of 1985.

"Great!" she said. "We should go see it at noon. People are working and all, and it will probably just be us in the theater."

* * *

Diana was an amazing woman. He could imagine so many scenarios in which she would tell him her life story, her ambitions, her pet peeves…whatever. He just wanted to know who she was. Though, easily, he could come up with several nightmare scenarios, in which she would inevitably ask about him. He was ashamed that he didn't have much honorable things to tell about himself, nor exciting things for that matter, and was obviously sure that she wouldn't want to hear about the Middle East. The exciting, life-taking, hopeless Middle East that politicians had torn apart and eaten up most of the resources. In fact, a lot of the fuel that came from there was directly taken by Veidt Industries.

Veidt was an old man now, and was probably much weaker than his younger counterpart that Nite Owl and Rorschach had faced in 1985. Seymour warned him over a phone call, however, that Veidt was still very fit for his age. It's doubtful that most youngsters could beat him in a hand-to-hand fight. Veidt was still that good. It would take someone with much more clever tactics to beat the smartest man in the world.

The cab stopped at a red light in a street that was abused with flashy red lights with pictures of women's breasts smothered all over the walls and windows. The local red light district was what most of the other cabbies called it. Dan could smell the awful, filthy, cheap perfume worn by the whores waiting on the street corners as if no one was watching. These were the parts of the city that no one came to see, or at least no one paid attention to. They were the cheap, unsavory whores that only broken homeless men would come to, instead of the classier, guiltier whores who served rich politicians and movie stars and rock stars who rolled into Veidt's Empire in shades of green. They were all the same to him. Hell, ancient history had whores. Rahab the Harlot was a whore who changed the course of history, according to the Old Testament. Maybe Veidt's Empire was truly an empire, after all.

"Hey, honey," one of them said, waving at him with sexual tendencies. "Feelin' lonely tonight?"

Dan gave her a vacant stare and rolled up the passenger side window, prompting her to aggravatingly give him a middle finger and spit on the window.

"Fucking bitch," he muttered.

He wished he could grip her by the throat right now and crush her windpipe just to watch her suffocate to death. It would be just as easy as killing little teenage Arab terrorists who wanted to see the ugly side of life before being sent to nothingness without their seventy-something virgins.

Before the light could turn green, a disturbingly loud thump nearly cracked his window as a streak of blood smeared diagonally downwards, leaving a huge splatter where likely her head had made contact. His heart was speeding, but his hands were stable and still, calculated and careful. It was some kind of barking that followed as a tan-skinned man yelled and shouted at the woman with godlike fury, raining down upon her the rage of dissatisfaction. Dan got out of the taxi.

"Bitch! Never lose customers like that! I should teach you a fucking lesson!" he shouted, reaching into his pants and pulling out a knife. There were no cops on the streets for some reason. Dan assumed that the man, probably her pimp, would have a good way to dispose of the body to keep up images. The streets were unusually clean, of course, thanks to the effective sanitation system. Too bad not all trash was cleaned up.

"Mind your own fuckin' business and get movin'," the pimp barked at him. "Go on! Go, you piece of shit! Get your ass outta here!"

The dogs of society right in his face, slobbering over him like a fresh meal. Must he be a monster, as well, to clash with these savages?

Dan took a breath and summoned all the courage that he could. "I don't think the lady likes being treated like that."

The man fixed his sunglasses. "What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"

"Just go," the whore told him. "Please. Just go. I'll be fine."

A backhand from the pimp smacked her in the jaw, leveling her to the icy concrete with drips of blood as decoration. Dan tightened a fist, but saw that the pimp had a switchblade. Somehow, a sensation of déjà vu came about, as he could feel the grip of death cradling the confrontation.

"Leave him alone!" the whore shouted to her pimp. "Johnny, leave him alone! Please! He's just a kid! He's just a kid!"

A whore, defending _him_?

He's had knives pointed at him before. When he had finished with the Middle East, he was considered to be enrolled in the US Special Forces to become a Green Beret, but when the officials considered his psychological tests, they let him go. Dan's heart was ready to leap out of his chest, but his hands were as steady as can be, a shocking subtle aspect of him that slightly unnerved the pimp.

"I'ma fuck you like I fucked yo' mother," he said to Dan, waving the knife around with no discipline at all.

When Dan was stationed in Israel, before deploying further east, he was lucky enough to train with their military and study Krav Maga. It was simple, effective, but most of all deadly, and wasn't to be used for a sport of any kind. It was invaluable to him during his close encounters with insurgents in those rundown neighborhoods.

And when the instinct kicked in, it was too easy.

The pimp tried to stab a few times, but Dan got close and caught his arm and laid a punishing fist to the man's ribs. Like Russian Sambo or the CQC he was taught in the military, he quickly applied a submission grip to the man's arm and yanked it downward, causing a sickening crackle. While still holding the pimp in the lock, Dan, realizing that he had not downed him, ruthlessly stomped on the joint of his leg, breaking the two bones from the knee and summoning loud, painful cries from the victim of his defensive maneuver.

Dan then gripped the pimp by his head while he was down and, clutching him by his long, slicked hair, slammed his head down onto the pavement like a monkey would do in attempts to break a coconut open. After three hits, he could swear that he heard a fracturing of the pimp's skull on the dirty concrete.

Gasping for air for some reason, Dan backed away and felt a stinging sensation in his arm. Inspecting why it was hurting so much, he spotted an open, gaping cut that revealed the muscle and fat trying to hold itself together as the slow regenerative systems kicked in. He would need stitches.

"Shit…" one of the other whores said, walking over. "He fucked Johnny up."

Before any more attention could be pulled to the area, Dan directly entered his taxi and crushed the pedal with anxious force, running it past the vacant street and heading back into the deeper parts of the city.

* * *

_December 18th, 2009_

_I've had it. I'm sick of these pimps and rapists and killers. I will not take it anymore. I willlllllllll_

He found himself writing the same letter over and over again. Looking down at his chest, he found that he had suffered more than he thought. Maybe he was not as fast as he used to be. It was too much sitting around, too much waiting. Dan sat in his apartment, shirtless, taking another shot of hard whiskey to deal with the egregious scars on his chest and arms.

_Is this what I've been fighting for? To live alone in a shitty apartment with shitty neighbors and a shitty landlady who does a shitty job of raising her kids? God sits and watches us as we cry and transform into hellish beings who drop so far down the grave that we cannot dig our way back up. Will you claim me, world, as you did everyone else in my family? As you claimed my grandfather in this very city twenty years ago?_

_Veidt. I don't hate the man. He's a model for success and ambition and industry, and he's the public reason why we haven't been in a full-scale war with other countries. I shouldn't be surprised. He stopped war in 1985._

_But he underestimated the evil in the hearts of men. He, with his successful underpinnings and brilliance should know this. If what happened back then was true, then he understands why we cannot help ourselves. He understands why we are a damned race._

_That whore. She defended me tonight, in the streets. She begged for the pimp to spare my life. Probably so she can continue work to get money and go home and swim in her pile of heroin needles and end up dead next week because her pimp was angry with her. Right?_

_Right?_

Dan took another shot, the alcohol numbing his system as he dimmed most of the lights and leaned back in his chair, watching the television in hopes that it would deafen him to the landlady's aggressive sex while her children were sleeping. On television, the news replayed a discussion session about the myth of crime in Veidt's perfect city.

"Everyone, please welcome Professor Case Riley of Adrian Veidt University," the anchor, Charles Gibson, said. "Now, Professor Riley, there has been a great myth that in the backstreets of the city, there are unpleasant acts of crime that few ever notice. What can you say about this?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong with this city at all," the professor replied with an elitist, obnoxious tone. "Those are just people who have no faith in our great city at all, and do not appreciate the opportunities that Mr. Veidt has given to the youth. These are people who rebel for the sake of rebellion, because, being quite rebellious myself, people just want drama. There's no actual proof of murder in the streets. There may be drug circulation, but drugs are used at the expense of the user. They're not crammed down the throats of the system."

"Mr. Bateson? Your response?" Charles asked.

"I'm not denying or accepting that crime is in on every corner," Mr. Bateson said. "There has been no proof, yes, but I _will_ say that a valid reason that it could be happening is because no one really cares to the people it happens to. I mean, no one of the high class dies. This country, despite all the opportunity, is still a bit apathetic when, say, an immigrant dies than when a white, Anglo-Saxon Christian woman with good ol' fashioned American values passes away in a car crash. And no, I'm not disrespecting either side. I'm just quoting trends."

"Oh, no, you're disrespecting people here greatly, Mr. Bateson," Professor Riley responded.

"Gentlemen," Charles said with a gentle gesture to cease the tension. "Please, let's keep this discussion calm…"

"How about no, Chuck?" the professor told him. "Look, you're wrong, Mr. Bateson. You have no proof."

"But I'm not denying—"

Dan turned the television to something else, but seeing as there was nothing else on but news, infomercials, and, of course, the free Veidt Network, he turned off the television in utter disgust. Pimps are beating their hookers out in the streets and all people can do is speculate on whether it was true or not.

He closed his journal and shut his eyes for a few seconds.

Someone had to do something. As big of a joke that he knew the world was, it was all he had. It was his world, and though he understood the ferocity and viciousness of men, he wanted to show the people that the world was worth everything. He wanted enemies of injustice to cower with fear beneath the gutters where they belonged so that he may flush them out to sea and never see them return to this city ever again. He had the means. He had the motives. He just needed something else. Something frightening.

* * *

He closed the journal again and looked down at the wood floor. He had been browsing around the journal, bouncing in between entries, searching tirelessly for the one that had the information complementing Seymour's address. The Hispanic man with his hands nonchalantly placed on his waist exhaled a breath of annoyance while his child, a five year old daughter, held his hand, starring at Dan suspiciously, but curiously.

"You gonna look for your shit or what, ese?" he asked. "You lucky I let you in for this."

"Just a moment," Dan replied, caressing his hand across the wood.

A thought almost escaped him, but when he remembered, then nearly slapped himself. He was a year off in the journal. Hastily, he flipped through the pages and hit the final entries, all of which were even more hastily scribbled than the others. Rorschach's writing was nearly illegible, but good enough that someone with a decent sense of English might be able to read it. He wrote like poetry. Small phrases with large meanings. Dan admired that.

_The Comedian is dead. Scoured the streets. Interrogated the bars. Nothing. Happy Harry's dry as ever._

_Finished third face. Exited whore landlady's apartment before she got home. Kids didn't mind. They never did. Saw Kovacs as something else. Kovacs is weak. They sympathize with him. Weak face for weak person. Glad he died._

Dan peeked at the bottom cupboard in the kitchen and walked over slowly, feeling somewhat of a weight with each step he took. When he got close enough, he stopped. If he wanted, he could turn away right now and leave it all behind. He could move back to a normal life. But, thinking about this made him chuckle just slightly. He had been trying to have a normal life ever since his tour of duty. It's been at least two years. Nearly all of his family was dead (he hadn't checked if anyone else related to him was alive). He had a girlfriend, but she left him when he tried to call her after returning. She said he was different. Said that something about him had changed. Said he used to be carefree. Now he was something else.

_Took Comedian's things after searching apartment two days ago. Guns. Never needed guns before. Stupid honor, won't compromise. These rats will bleed by my fists, not guns. But there is nothing else. Perhaps one day will arrive when someone will break rules of honor and use gun. Smarter that way. Stashed inside apartment, northeast section. Dark wooden plank inside bottom cupboard. 1423 Mobil Avenue._

From the looks of the journal and further research, it seemed that Rorschach considered himself a transformation from Kovacs, telling Dr. Malcolm Long that Kovacs had died in '75, when he—masquerading as Rorschach, he said—was searching for the missing Blair Roche. Young kid. Six years old. Dan had lost a Blair Roche as well. He never forgave the world for that.

He couldn't. Maybe Daniel Lee died long ago and never came back from the scorching deserts of the Middle East, where he died with that little girl, tears down his face, screaming in his head for his mother, closing his eyes.

Perhaps it was Rorschach who tried to open them again. Perhaps Dan Lee has been slowly dying ever since. Perhaps Dan Lee's heart is as black as the coldest parts of hell, with intentions as white as a Crusader's cuirass. Perhaps the man is no different from the mask. Perhaps.

Dan pulled the mask out and examined the colors, his eyes nearly dilating as the blots shifted into different shapes, still useful after all these years. So beautiful. So alluring. As black and as white as it gets. Looking back, he saw that it had been concealed under the wooden floor of the bottom cupboard inside a cardboard box, not taped. He then saw a perfectly shiny .45 caliber silver 1911 pistol that was heavily modified, a smiley face imprinted on the handle. Alongside that, a suppressor. A Comedian's.

The Hispanic man was watching his television in the other room, somewhat trusting that Dan would not steal anything. The little girl was probably in her room.

_If my end is nigh, someone must take the mantle. Humans will always love. They will fight, struggle, and tear each other to pieces. Must be something better. Must struggle until God listens. Rorschach will never die. Rorschach must not._

The mask had an old, musty smell, though a wash would solve that problem. But Dan, realizing that it was such an attractive face, slipped it over his head. How perfect it was. Dan looked down at his hands and reached around the new world before him, knowing that he had found a symbol that the guilty will now fear. Something that could bring fear into the criminal fraternity. A muffled bump caused him to peer over his shoulder.

It was the little girl. She held her stuffed bear tightly, but gazed at him with cautious eyes, a blank, dead look on her face. Dan faced her and showed her his new face, the shifting patterns forming something different each time as he gave her a stoic, vacant, lifeless stare, silently apologizing to her that he was too late. Always has been, and always will be too late. That he should have saved them both. That this was all he could do to spare everyone else.

He felt reinvigorated. A black revival.

_Rorschach lives._

_Rorschach's Journal, October 14th, 1985_

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter. I know it feels like a bit of a jump. Don't worry. It's supposed to feel like that. Things will get much more complicated very soon as Dan begins to analyze more of what Rorschach thinks and how he should react to them. I assure you, this Rorschach is different.**


	4. Lights

**Hey guys, sorry I took so long to update, but I've just been really busy and was also having trouble getting my point across in this chapter, so I had to rewrite parts of it. It's not as strong as the other chapters, and serves more as a middleman for the next one, though there is a large story element introduced here. Enjoy, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up soon.**

**Chapter 4: Lights**

Detective Hollis was not a hated woman. But she wasn't much respected, either. She was complacent with being in between most things and letting her colleagues do what they must. She did loathe turning in assignments, though. No one ever took her cases seriously, even when she had striking arguments to represent her allegations of a drug ring or the murder of a prostitute. It made her job frustrating, but either way, she was paid. That's what people wanted in this world, right? They want to be paid so they can go to their families and live happily? It was what her parents would have wanted, despite their bitter disapproval of her becoming a detective.

The cop life wasn't too bad. She was still quite young and had a long career ahead of her. Every now and then there would be neighborhood disturbances and occasional caught-at-the-scene crimes but things were far from quiet and boring.

"You know," her male partner, Detective Lasko, said, "you should really get into this kind of shit. Really brings money in for the kid at home, know what I mean?"

"No thanks," she immediately declined. "And I don't have a kid."

"For such a cute little detective like yourself, you really do know how to make the rest of the unit pretty edgy," Lasko muttered, stuffing the wad of cash into his sleek leather jacket. "You know what I mean?"

Maybe it was all she deserved now; all the crudeness of the city's underbelly submerging her waist-deep into its awful blackness. She prayed for Monday, when she'd be off work, then she'd have that date with the mysterious man who was working for that taxi company she suspected was heavily involved in the heroin trade in the city. It was all work when she was at the University, searching for any signs of suspected crimes from the sudden outcry, though the University was hardly a decent place to stake out. The classes were good, but she was never in it for the long haul.

"I don't share the spoils of dishonest people."

Lasko let out a hearty laugh. "Sure thing. But, in a world like this, what's there to honor when we can die dishonorably any moment?"

And her suspicions on campus grounds? Jake Dixon, the guy who had been chasing her around all weekend last week was likely a decent link to the heroin ring.

_Suspect_. Yes, that was all she had. Suspicion.

"We just like to live in the moment is all," he told her. "And your way of going about things in this department makes us suspicious. But who gives a shit? Suspicions never proved nothin' anyway. At least not to the law."

If not Jake Dixon, then it had to be Daniel Lee. She had done bits and bits of research on him, where he used to live and how his home life was, and how a young man like that came to live on his own in the city. Interesting person. There wasn't much information on his home life, as he was quite detached from his parents. Honestly, she couldn't discover many details about his life at all, which curiously made the research much more interesting. His mother died of cancer back in 2006, along with several other family members dying of varying causes years before that. It's almost a miracle that he did not break under the pressure.

He was the only link to the supposed heroin trade in the taxi company.

However, something about Dan wasn't quite right. He was silent, but silent people usually had shyness to overcome. Dan was not shy. The way he spoke and his mannerisms as their conversations progressed were different. He seemed to be thinking of something else all the time, and she didn't want to intrude, as he seemed like a delicate person that could completely shut her out if he felt like it.

"Sometimes you just can't beat the tide," Lasko told her.

_"You always say that," said Benitez, cleaning his gun on the bench._

_Dan shrugged. "That's because it's true. It takes a wise man to realize that this world's gone to hell."_

_Dan raised his gun to the insurgent's head, but seeing that the man was probably never going to get up, he put his gun back and watched him for the next few moments. The scruffy-bearded man with ashy, dry skin and his arms out to his sides groaned with a raspy, desiccated voice. Benitez looked with pity._

_"Aren't you going to finish him, man?"_

_"No need to waste bullets."_

_"But he's suffering."_

_Dan chuckled and took a drag of the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth._

_"Who cares?" Dan said. "He knows why he joined the terrorists. He should accept full consequences."_

_Benitez frowned, realizing that the man's lips were dried and cracked. "God, look at him…I don't think he was guilty of anything. He's not armed."_

_"Everyone's guilty here."_

"What about our fight?" she asked. "The fight for justice? This city is shit."

"It doesn't take a prick professor of sociology to realize that this city's down to shit. But it takes a prick professor of sociology to think he can solve those problems."

She joined to pursue justice, and to help the weak from being the next victims of the six o'clock news. Though her parents did not enjoy her decision, something behind their eyes condoned her behavior; a sign that they have not forgotten what they used to stand for.

"I mean, we _are_ the justice of this world, you know?" he said. "But going against the tide…it takes something else to do that. Something else entirely."

_"Maybe you're right, man. I'm probably just fucked in the head right now," Benitez replied._

_Dan scoffed. "Finally. Getting smart."_

_"I guess it's useless to be civilized in an uncivilized land."_

_"Uh huh."_

_His friend's breathing seemed to be more noticeable as they trudged the streets, returning to their unit for their next orders. Dan avoided looking over his shoulder, as he felt like he never needed to wonder if his friend agreed with him or not. He didn't care._

_"Except…"_

_But Dan was curious anyway. "Except what?"_

"You indulge in it," she admonished quietly, brushing back her silky smooth brown hair.

"And you've got a problem with that?" Lasko confronted her, stopping the vehicle. "We can take it up to the commissioner and see who he sides with. I'm just a simple man trying to make a simple living. Survival in this jungle is key."

She thought of her parents, and the disturbing times they went through back in the 80s. She tried to place herself in the shoes of more troubled people, and in that way, make her situation seem less disconcerting. But it was everywhere. The press was too concerned in maintaining the city's image that they had shunned nearly every bit of evidence of the lopsided system. It would take newer, bolder people to return the city.

Detective Hollis sighed and she stared out the window while Lasko was driving to god-knows-where. She wished that someone would just walk in here and clean it all up; make it go away. Sometimes, she even prayed to God that someone would come. But that was three years ago, while she was still at the academy, and no one has arrived. There is no end in sight.

* * *

_Rorschach's Journal_

_December 20th, 2009_

_Must be a reason why I was brought back. Must be a reason why. Retribution? Order? Chaos? Doesn't matter. Here now, and there's much work to be done. This city is an ultimate victim of its own indecency. Delusional, liberal, pseudo-intellectual professors dismissing blood and carnage on the streets of these dreadful neighborhoods. Fathers, mothers, and children have needles shoved into their arms. They are murdered and butchered in silence. All this carnage, and those so-called humanists on their high horses still deny any sort of crime. Raining again. Just before the storm._

It took him almost the entire day to find the correct hat that would match the black Macintosh coat. He was back in his apartment now, the coffee table cleaned and cleared with all the things he had that would help his cause laid upon on it. Because he'd have to stay in the shadows at night, he decided on a black coat instead of the original brown one that the previous Rorschach wore. The new-and-crisp black fedora, which cost him a good $100, was still in its shopping bag. He never enjoyed lengthy hours of shopping. All he had were clothes from before his service as a Marine and one formal outfit that was used for _formal_ occasions. Then there was the white scarf which did not take him nearly as much time to find.

The mask, still in motion like a lava lamp, sat next to the Comedian's 1911 custom, a gun that he still hasn't cleaned yet because of the gun laws in the city. So much for the second amendment. He still had some loose ends to tie up. For one, he needed safety equipment if he were to stay alive long enough to see this city changed. And after cleaning up the gutters, he'd have to take care of Veidt sooner or later. The man would be the last loose end, and for the deaths of Kovacs, the Comedian, and the millions he eliminated years ago, Dan would claim retribution. But not yet. There was real work to be done, and when he's finished, he will hunt down Ozymandias.

Then, he considered solutions to his safety problem. There was online ordering, of course, and he had a laptop stashed somewhere in his room. But, ordering would cause too much attention. He'd have to get it from somewhere else. He'd have to find a way to get a lightweight tactical armored vest to stop, or at least soften, knife (and possibly gun) wounds, along with .45 caliber bullets and a cleaning kit for the pistol. Despite the restrictions on firearms in the city, he was sure that mob bosses carried a piece, even if they weren't full automatics. Even though guns were banned, a person could still get one off the black market, provided that they were willing to pay a ridiculously high price. Until he could find ammunition and cleaning kits, he'd have to go with the only weapon that the military allowed him to carry: his knife. The knife was useful, but it was still too short in terms of reach. He'd have to get other things he comes across.

The television was on. "And here's Mayor James Proctor on the alleged crime increase in the city, and the recently new emergence of self-proclaimed 'neighborhood watchers' in this city."

They were either stupid or deliberately taking too long to consider things. Maybe they were ready to risk the lives of innocent people over a few thousand crimes that the cops turned away from; crimes that were in broad daylight, and likely even more in the shadows. Just like Veidt risked New York.

And what the hell did she mean by neighborhood watchers?

"Good morning," said the suave Mayor Proctor, a man in his 50s who looked like he was still in his 40s. "It has come to my attention that there is a tremendous increase in crime in the outer parts of our great city, a city that our beloved Adrian Veidt has given back to us since the catastrophe in 1985. My advisors, including Mr. Veidt himself, have been working tirelessly for a solution to—"

If they had stuck with that one decision, then why take so long to answer? Why the apathy? Dan scoffed as he reached for a sip from his coffee and sat on the couch. The landlady was yelling at her children again, so he turned up the volume. The image of the mayor disappeared and a 'please stand by' message ran across the screen for the next few moments. Dan watched carefully, and when the image returned, it showed a strangely dressed man in what seemed to be a basement full of riot equipment.

Everyone watching the program was seeing this.

Dan nearly spit out his coffee. The man in the leather gladiator's helmet and chest armor covering what seemed to be chainmail on top of Under Armor stepped in front of the mayor and shook his hand. He was sure people were silent, the word on the tip of their tongues sounding like a swear word as they could not say it, though in the pits of their stomachs, they knew, and so did Dan. With the suspicion, uncertainty, and fear of what was happening, everyone silenced themselves and waited for the word.

"Good morning, everyone. I'm afraid I am not so great an orator as the mayor. However, what I must say is vital if this city wants to survive. It will be simple and easy. We have heard the public outcry, and the overwhelming odds the police fight against."

Dan scoffed at the latter.

"We do not wish to break the laws passed by the Keene Act, but the apathy we've faced in this city is quite staggering. We are protectors. We're not vigilantes. We do not condone vigilantism. We are people just like you, watching now, who are sick and tired of seeing these streets disintegrate into drug use and bad principles. We're not professors or political strategists debating on primetime television. We're not the apathetically affluent class who make snide remarks at everything mentioned on television, denying that such crime exists. We are the one that stands against the tide when the right thing must be done. We are pursuers of peace. And so, we will patrol and guard the streets to prevent any more of this happening again…"

He didn't need to hear any more. Dan was nearly sick to his stomach that just as he was ready to set examples for the city, someone already beaten him to it. It proved him right, though, that there was something very wrong with the city, and someone had to do something about it.

"We will be diplomatic and polite, and we fully believe in the rights of every citizen, from ex-convicts to single mothers to hard day workers. You, people, who try to keep your lives afloat in these streets full of hidden dangers. You, honest people who believe in a day's work for a day's pay. You, mothers, fathers, children, and friends who are afraid to go out at night. Fear no longer. The Protectors are an open guild for citizens who want to make a difference. We will be the guiding lights to bringing back this city."

Then why do you hide behind a face? Dan scoffed again, his blood about to boil. But then, a new thought came to mind. This man, he had absolutely no word about justice in his speech so far. Nothing at all. What good will silenced neighborhoods do when that's how crime is done nowadays? Crime is hidden in those streets, and it would take more than an extravagant 'protector' to crack into the system. It takes someone harder.

And so, he must wait just a bit longer. He's not ready to make his entry yet.

Then came the showcase of freaks as this Gladiator man introduced a team of three including himself.

The first man he introduced was a man known as the Sarge, a strikingly tall man with an imposing, bulky frame sporting a dark urban-styled military BDU with a black hood-and-cape scheme, the cape fabric covering the lower half of his face while the hood barely allowed the upper half to be seen. He carried a nightstick in his hand, along with other various enforcement gadgets.

The next (and last) person was a woman, introduced as Tribal; an African woman with tights colored in an African tribal fashion, with protective plates covering parts of her body. She obviously had a tendency to be the more sexual 'hero' of them, since the tights were two-pieced, exposing her toned abdomen and beautiful backbone. Tied behind her back were two kali sticks, indicating that she was a practitioner of Eskrima, the Filipino martial art. Dan also noted that she did not look American.

They did not seem as outlandish as the Minutemen or the Crimebusters, for their gear was neither as bright nor as elaborate as it could have been. But still, Dan was aggravated that the timing was so horrible. These people who looked like clowns on a reality show seemed like they had no idea what they were about to get themselves into. Then again, they were only patrolling the streets, right?

Dan reached for the cigarettes on the table, but after holding them in his hands for awhile, realizing that there was only one left, he knew that he'd have to finish the pack. He gazed at the cigarette, the nicotine-filled paper cylinder that was slowly killing him like it killed his mother. When he looked back up on the TV, he scowled at those so-called heroes and their naiveté. In this sudden frustration, he tossed his cigarettes into the trash.

He leaned back on his couch and listened to the rattling of the rain outside. These heroes won't solve anything. It takes something more to bring this city back; something darker to bring back the lights. He still had his chance, but he couldn't predict whether things would escalate or not. He didn't care. He had streets to clean up, and they might be a good distraction.

* * *

There she was again, putting on her act as she sat across the coffee table from him. He seemed a bit distant, constantly shifting his vision around as if he was paranoid about something. Out of shyness, she didn't want to ask him what was bothering him, because he seemed to be somewhat distracted by something the entire day, despite replying to everything she said.

Usually, she would put on the dumb girl act that flirty guys really enjoy playing around with, but Dan was different. He seemed to look upon her as a person, even if she was undercover as a university student.

"Did you like the movie?" she asked.

Dan looked at her and shrugged. "It wasn't bad."

She hated that he wasn't being as responsive as he was the other day. It's as if something had completely thrown him off, as if he wasn't really here.

"Something on your mind?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. "Something."

Around her, all she could hear was people speaking of the strange television broadcast from the group known only as The Protectors. In all honesty, she was quite glad that someone was sick enough to form a group like that, but out of jealousy, the police might pursue them. Even she knew, though, that there were many frustrated police officers who were afraid to come out and speak against the department. She was one of them.

"So," she said. "About that thing on TV…"

"It'll escalate things," Dan told her almost immediately. So she hit the nail on the head. Maybe that was all that was going on in his mind, but she couldn't tell for sure.

"Do you really think that they will make a difference in the city?"

Dan took a sip of his coffee and shook his head only slightly, as though he was a bit ambivalent about it. "No. Things will get violent."

"You mean, regarding your job?" she asked, trying to edge in closer to him. "I imagine that cabbies get a lot of trouble."

He nodded nonchalantly, still thinking distantly about something. She put her hand on the table in frighteningly close proximity to his, and tried to snatch his gaze towards her.

"Mm-hmm…"

"I mean, my uh, uncle was a cop and all…"

He finally looked up. "Your uncle, Dan?"

She grinned. "Yeah! Surprised you remember. Anyway, he always said that violence starts in the streets. I'm guessing cabbies get to see the action first hand."

A spark flickered in his eye, as if she managed to catch him for that one second.

"Your uncle. What happened to him?"

Diana looked down at her drink, staring at her reflection through the black coffee, remembering what he'd always tell her when they decided to give her the truth. As her smile slightly faded, she remembered those stories told about the nights alone in the city, taking down bad men one by one. If only it were still that simple.

"He quit."

Dan didn't seem to be responsive. Still. "At least he has his health."

"Funny. That's what my mother told me."

"She still alive?"

Her gaze went off into space and she found herself meditating on other things. "Yes. But they're different now. My father used to fill my head with these…noble ideologies about life and justice and heroism. Almost as if he had missed the chance to exercise them. My mother was more realistic, I guess. She was the only one who openly opposed some of my choices."

Dan cocked his head just slightly. "What are you majoring in?"

"Uh," she looked up abruptly. "Th-that's not important. I used to think that I could make a difference in this world. With all of this 'hidden crime' bullshit going on, the future looks bleaker."

Now his attention was focused on her, and his expression softened as though he tried to empathize with her. "Hope is never lost. Not while you're still breathing."

She chuckled. "For a cabbie, you're quite optimistic."

"No," he replied. "Optimism means no more to me than pessimism. They're both a waste of human energy, and have no real value."

"Then what kind of outlook is worthwhile in life?"

"Mine," he looked into her eyes with a sleeping ferocity.

A bemused grin surfaced. "That's strange. Never figured you for a 'me' type of person."

"In the end, we only have ourselves. And we can't betray that."

His eyes gazed off into space as she tried to hide her own reactions to his slight vulnerability. But when she looked closer, she realized that he was not vulnerable at all, and she had no strength to puncture through his impenetrable coat of armor.

"Not even when our emotions think otherwise."

"But don't your emotions dictate what's right and what's wrong?"

He looked up at her with a slight smirk. "No. I base what's right and wrong on my knowledge. Humans are a weak-willed and frail lot; they crumble easily under too much pressure. Even the best of us can be bought without a solid set of rules."

"You're the inflexible type, aren't you?" she asked, half-faking the expression of worry to give him concern.

He blinked. "Not all the time."

"Are you big on politics? You're pretty adamant about things."

"No way," he shook his head. "Don't have the patience for old men obsessed with power."

"You know, a cousin of my friend's would say something similar," she then said. "And he was in the military."

"Me too. 4 years, Marine Corps," he told her with some pride behind that voice, although a sudden hesitation to take a sip of his coffee caught her eye, indicating that something had just crossed his mind.

But she already knew that he was in the Marines. She wanted to know about the drug ring, and if his taxi company had any real involvement in it.

"And now you're in the transport business," she stated with a slight sarcasm behind her voice.

He scoffed. "Being a cabbie isn't too bad if you can handle the whores and pimps and junkies discussing their heroin and child pornography."

"Must be pretty grim," she said with her trademark smile that she tried to cheer him up with. "And did you say heroin?"

"Most of it circulates within the poor, weak class."

"Hey, wait a minute. Rich people do tons of drugs, too," she replied.

"Your point?"

"So, like…are drugs really _bad_?"

He finally looked up at her with a bewildered expression, one that seemed to blend with anger and confusion and disbelief.

"Joke," she muttered with an intimidated, nervous giggle, her eyes aimed down on her lap. "Probably a lot of heroin then, if you say there is."

"Actually, I fou…" Dan then started, but seemed to halt himself. She watched him carefully, her face hidden behind a playful façade.

"…what?"

There was some consideration on his face as he carefully decided what to say.

He smiled and finished his coffee. "Nothing. I doubt there's any heroin out there anyway. This city is Veidt Secure, after all."

Though she let out an obligatory laugh at his complacent sarcasm, she was somewhat panicking, because it seemed as though she lost his interest on the heroin topic.

"What? No way, there's got to be at least a ring behind those legitimate businesses," she said to him. "I could get heroin as easily as anyone."

And interest returned, but it wasn't the type of interest she needed from him.

"Where?"

"The Andale Hotel, of course," she told him. "But a girl can't just go in there and ask for a hit. That's just where the boss is at."

"Remind me who this guy is."

"Mickey Delahunt. He's practically feeding on the poor right now while everyone's still debating on whether to take action or not," she informed with an annoyed tone. "I'm glad that people don't plan to stand around anymore."

"Sorry," he replied, "but I think these Protectors are a joke."

Her eyes widened. "What? How could you say that? They're standing up for citizens who—"

"No. They are only going to patrol the streets, as they so heavily implied," he retorted. "They won't fix a damn thing. The drugs and prostitution will keep going."

She looked away. "And I thought I was the pessimist."

"It won't matter," he said. "This could escalate to greater heights. I hope it doesn't."

But in his mind, he already knew what was coming. The Protectors lit the match.


	5. Convergence

**Alright, guys, I think****this****is the chapter you've been waiting for. It's long, and just filled with tons of things about our two central characters. I've spent most of Saturday and Sunday really relaxing and unwinding all the crazy ways I could have done this chapter, and to be honest, I've never done it this way before. It's really also an exercise in how the chapter is told, and not just why. So I hope you guys really enjoy what goes on here, and how it goes about.**

**Chapter 5: Convergence**

Detective Hollis scanned her flashlight over the dead body. Blood had decorated most of the man's expensive white dress shirt and silver blazer, dripping down his body from the ugly slash at his throat. The corpse was already beginning to stink. It didn't seem too long ago; the cigarette was still lit and smoking, and out of annoyance, she put it out.

"Where are the rest of them?" she asked.

"In custody," said the night watchman. "Sorry about the lighting. Power was cut for awhile, and we're working on getting it back together."

Diana put the latex gloves on and picked up the Beretta 9mm handgun from the table. "You think it'd be easier to track whoever's moving this kind of stuff. Even for small arms like these."

"You think it'd be easier to catch _any_ kind of trafficking," the watchman said, shining his flashlight over to the small pile of heroin stacked on the table. "Looks like he beat us to it, whoever this guy is."

There was also blood on the floor, probably from the fight that erupted in the hallway before pouring into the backroom of the restaurant.

"Two more dead," the watchman noted.

She looked up at him after scanning the scattered paperwork on the desk that was also coated with what seemed to be cocaine leftovers. "You think it was just one guy?"

"I'm no forensic scientist, but the way the injuries look on the other men and the kill method, I'd say so," he told her.

"A hitman, maybe?" asked her partner, Lasko. There seemed to be a lump in his throat, as she detected authentic symptoms of fear. But fear of who? The mobsters or the hitman?

"Let's hope not," she said. "There hasn't been any horrible gang violence since I was a child."

Lasko gave her a quick glare, indicating the change in his attitude from when they were in the car. "You don't sound too concerned."

"I'm not concerned about dead enemies," she told him, returning an eye. "I'm concerned about who did this."

"Maybe it was one of those Protectors," said the watchman. "They've been around for a week or two now. You think there's something else with them?"

Diana shook her head. "I wouldn't say so. They're more like an _image_ rather than…this. Everyone's practically distracted by them."

"Who do you think it might be, then?"

She needed answers. This didn't seem like a usual mob hit, because anyone who was targeted by the mob disappeared without evidence. And they usually paid off the police to screw with the evidence, but based on Lasko's reactions to the scene, there was something awfully wrong.

"Don't know. I'll need to see a few people," she then turned to Lasko. "Lasko?"

He looked up, looking somewhat disillusioned. "What? Oh. Right. It's a bit late for me right now. Uh…"

"Forget it. If you're not up for it, I'll go alone."

It was supposed to sound cold, but instead it sounded pitiful, like she was sorry for him.

In this city, what could be so terrifying that it would shake a man such as Lasko? There were so many thoughts darting back and forth in her brain that before she even realized she was away from the scene, her car was halfway down the road and she was frantically chewing on a piece of gum. A real crime scene. The thought sent chills all over her body. There was excitement and fear, and she knew that only more blood would follow.

* * *

"Shit, a hundred bucks? Alright," said the black man. "Why do you need to be in there anyway? Don't you guys usually just pay them off?"

Dan shrugged. "Come on, man. No questions."

"You ain't gonna hurt nobody, are you?"

"No," he shook his head. "That's not my job. Like I said, I'm an Internal Affairs agent, and we kind of work outside the law to get inside the law. It's a complicated process."

"Sheeeeiiit, no way. Internal Affairs finally up in here, huh?" the man nodded, already taking off his hat and reaching into the back of the van. "Always knew them cops was fucked up, man. They'll be sellin' shit to the boys back in the 'hoods and all."

The man reached for a box and found an old, ragged jumpsuit and tossed it to Dan. When Dan unfolded the old Morrison's Cleaners jumpsuit, he realized that it would look baggy on him. Soon after, the man tossed him a black bandana, to which Dan scowled at its filthiness.

"It's for your hair, man. I ain't exactly a cop, but I don't think I'd buy your disguise for one moment. Your hair's a bit too nice. Mess it up a little."

Dan scoffed and ruffled his hair into a messy bundle and tied the bandana on, and almost immediately, it reminded him of the many times Benitez would put on his bandana several times during the scorching day, whether it was to dunk it in water to keep cool or because it was itchy and uncomfortable at the time. The van's color was even the same as one of the many Hummers that they would ride on whenever they scanned through the neighborhoods. It felt like going back to battle once again, except this time there was no anxiety. He knew how to deal with it by now, and his ex-girlfriend even wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing before she stormed out of his life forever.

The van was part of a local cleaning company that cleaned the department offices at least once a month. Dan would have to get into the armory and locate some of the safety gear they had in there. If he were going to last, then he should at least be realistic about it. Sheer wondrous intimidation won't cut it alone; he had to back it up with absolute cunning and brute force to back it up. He had to be unstoppable. Even if he could be predicted in the future, he had to let his enemies know that they couldn't stop him.

"Alright, mister IA," the cleaner said. "What should I be callin' you when we get in there?"

Dan thought for a second. "Walter."

"Alright, Walter," he replied with no further questions. "Let's go."

* * *

"You know anything about this?" Diana asked Lasko. It was not only a question, but it signaled a notion of extreme distrust to which Lasko was used to by now. Diana was never much of a threat anyway.

Lasko was tapping his knee anxiously, "Hell no. Do I look like I know anything?"

"Kirilenko is pretty high up in the ranks. With your connections, I thought you'd know something."

"Oh yeah, just pick on the guy who takes a piece every once in awhile, will ya? Look, I don't know shit about this, alright? Can we just drop it?"

"Hey, I'm a cop, too. I'm not the one going around the hood and sniffing cocaine—"

"Shut up right now," he barked almost threateningly. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

"Allow me to judge then," she replied snidely.

"Yer' such a fucking hotshot," he mumbled, shaking his head. "Think you know how this world works."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't realize a damn thing, and you never will."

The rain rattled on the dashboard as she watched him shifting uncomfortably in his seat, truly bothered by the recent news. Then she realized that she had known him for a few years now, and it was clear to her that he was never much an anxious guy, because everything on the streets went according to plan. Their professional relationship was never really close, either, since Lasko tended to do things alone while she was out chasing ghosts in the back alleys.

"Sorry," she then said.

Lasko nodded, reluctantly, but they never traded gazes. "Know why I took this job in the first place?"

It was a strange question from Lasko, and if it were not as strange, she would have ignored it.

"Why?"

"I thought I'd get to move my mother out to live in better neighborhoods," he told her. "I grew up in the lower class areas. When I was a little kid at elementary school, the people from rich towns like Newland Heights would bring their kids down here on field trips. I never understood why, and to this day, I still don't understand. I stopped caring. But I always took some offense from it. My girlfriend back in high school was from Newland Heights. We met on weekends and shit, spent time with each other and all. Her father hated me. All my life I wanted to show them that I could be respected, too. So I became a cop."

She wondered why he was telling this to her. He wasn't much older than her, honestly; not like the really old veterans back at the department. And now, there was a sense of gentleness to his voice, an antithesis to his usual cocky-and-loud attitude.

"It's funny how this world works. You try to prove people wrong your entire life, and when you finally do, you realize that proving them wrong was never the point. They always hated you. They looked down upon you out of hate. You are stained with permanent ink blots, and when you have been tainted, you can never go back. Even if you were born tainted. And when that junkie stabbed her to death while we were at a block party, I knew. Her parents came down upon me like furious angels from a heaven that did not exist. I finally peered underneath that façade of lies, and saw society's true face."

There was nothing more to say. Diana dared not to look at him for another moment, and instead watched the driveway ahead. These past few weeks she had tormented him with fierce stares and cold shoulders.

After a long moment, they came to a red light and she looked over at him. "Did you ever get your mother out?"

"No," he told her. "She died of cancer a year after I graduated from the academy. So close to home."

Diana reached for her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, staring down with sorrow before the light turned green again.

"I'm sorry for your mother."

Lasko looked at her, his light brown hair slicked back from the rain. "Did you know her?"

She put a cigarette between her lips and began driving again. "No."

"She'd have liked you," he said. "You would have reminded her of the old vigilantes back in the 70s."

Diana smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah, just the way you carry yourself and everything," he told her. "I think she'd have bugged me, telling me, 'Now listen, boy. You take that nice girl out there to dinner and ask her to marry you or I'll be dead as Dillinger in the morning!'"

He said it in such a cartoony voice that she couldn't help but express amusement at it. The two shared an honest moment of laughter in the cold, but unusually calm and serene New York night. It might even start snowing later, if predictions were right.

"She really sounds like that?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I used to speak like that just to mock her whenever she made me do dishes or something."

"Oh wow," Diana giggled. "She made you do dishes?"

He nodded somewhat embarrassingly. "Yeah. There weren't any other women in the house, so I got to do a lot of chores."

"With the apron and everything?"

"It had little flowers on it."

Diana let out a loud "Ha!" and after that small moment, the car was silent again when they finally saw flashing lights outside the restaurant. People were gathered around like sheep and the police had to set up small blockades. Reality sank right back into them and their little moment had passed.

She gave him one last look before they got out of the car. "You think she'd have liked the Protectors?"

"I don't know, honestly," he said. "They seem to be more of a sideshow."

With a nod, they both exited the car and flashed their badges to the watchman guarding the front door. It wouldn't be long before they had to call forensics to show up. A 48 hour deadline was imminent regardless of evidence. Then the trail would be cold.

They passed the main restaurant where other watchmen were questioning customers for any sort of hint of the murderer. The world here was a much different world that she had come from. For once, she stepped into the unknown as the back hallway was stained with blood on the floors and walls, a calculated form of chaos that warned her of stepping any further. Lasko followed behind, obviously afraid of what was to come later. The watchman guarding the back room allowed them to enter, where she saw a dead body in a comfortable chair inside the dimly lit room. Diana pulled her flashlight out and began canvassing the place.

Detective Hollis scanned her flashlight over the dead body. Blood had decorated most of the man's expensive white dress shirt and silver blazer, dripping down his body from the ugly slash at his throat. The corpse was already beginning to stink. It didn't seem too long ago; the cigarette was still lit and smoking, and out of annoyance, she put it out.

"Where are the rest of them?" she asked.

* * *

The training area was somewhat busy, with a few cops firing practice rounds inside the underground room. Dan was instructed to clean the small bathroom installed in there and did so with haste, calculating his next step. He noticed cameras around the area, viewing both the shooters and the armory in the back. The only way he could get the bulletproof vest was to take out the cameras in the small security room behind the range. He kept his head low as he was dumping trash into the can next to the range, still calculating what to do inconspicuously.

"Hold your fire for a second, please," the intercom shouted. "Detective Hollis, a Detective Lasko is waiting for you outside."

She unloaded the magazine from her handgun and turned around to face the security men through the window of the room behind her and nodded, picking up her things and heading back out to the locker rooms to get dressed and meet with Lasko. As she passed, Dan was honestly relieved that she didn't notice him, and he even kept his head down when she walked by. Now there were only a few people in the area.

It would have been much easier to just buy it off the black market, but Dan had something else planned for that. Getting military-grade armor would be very hard to do, and would attract attention, even on a market as big as the criminal market. Still, it was easier. He had doubts about whether this would work, now.

He decided that it would be too difficult to get one from the armory, and headed back upstairs to the locker rooms, where he might have a better chance, though, potentially, there could still be a lot of people. He found the janitor's cart as he came back up and he decided to push it with him, hopefully being able to place the safety gear inside.

To his luck, there was no one in the locker rooms as he entered, and when he peered around, there were no cameras, strangely enough. This was a blind spot, then.

Dan crept around the lockers, peering through each of the small holes to see if there was at least some training gear in there. Luckily, each locker had a Kevlar vest, so all he had to do was find one that would fit him. Reaching into the jumpsuit's pocket, he fumbled between the old MP3 player there and finally located his lock picks, hoping to disengage the simple locks on each person's locker. The first one yielded a jacket too small, surprising him because he was not a very tall guy. He was only about 5'10 but with a compact, stocky build that made him imposing when he put on the black coat. Just yesterday, he was standing in the mirror looking at himself for hours.

He put the vest back and realized the bag of marijuana stashed underneath some other clothes, too. Sickened, he took it and tossed it into the trash bin on the cart that he rolled around, then closed the locker. Dan went through three more lockers before finding one that he could jump around in, and nodded to himself with consent. He took out another trash bag and put the vest inside, placing it inside the bin. He shut the locker.

Then the door opened from the other side of the locker rooms and a few men walked in, speaking to each other of something important.

"You got the stuff?"

"Yeah, it didn't take much. Snatched it from some poor taxi driver a week ago. The company probably doesn't even tell him that they're smuggling shit around."

Dan peeked from the lockers and noticed the two men speaking to each other, and he listened to the conversation.

"Don't need to hear this shit, man. Just gimme the stuff so I can send it to Kirilenko."

"Keep your goddamn panties dry for a second, will ya? How much does the damn Russian want?"

"A key," the other said. "He's Serbian, by the way."

"Same damn thing."

The other man was offended. "Hey, my grandmother's Serbian!"

"I'm sorry," the dealer said. "…that she's Serbian."

"Go fuck yourself," he laughed, and accepted a package.

Dan stood back up and his shoe twisted the wet ground with a noticeable squeak that sounded like the shoes at a basketball game.

Uh oh.

"What the hell was that?"

Hastily, Dan tried to think of something. He reached for the towel on the janitor's cart and began wiping the bench between the locker aisle he was in, but he knew that it wouldn't cut it.

"Who the hell's there?"

They were drawing closer. Dan frantically looked around for something that would prove his innocence, otherwise, he'd have to take them out. And he didn't need the trouble. He searched in his pockets and felt the earphones of the MP3 player, and the idea hit him. Putting on the earphones with urgency, he played a song on the player at a very high volume, enough for others to hear it at a short distance.

Then the two came around the corner and saw him wiping the bench. Dan acted innocent and subtle, looking up at them with guiltless eyes. He then removed one of his earphones.

"Is there a problem?"

One of the cops looked at the other one, then back at him. "I guess not. But this place is gonna be full in a bit, and you'll be in the way. Could you just clean this room later?"

"Yeah, sure thing," Dan smiled at them.

He pulled the janitor's cart to him and marched out, but was still suspicious of them. He managed to catch a name: Kirilenko. Dan took a note of that and he exited the locker room, grabbing the trash bag and taking it with him out the back door, where the other man was waiting.

* * *

It had been a day later from when Lasko called her up to go search for the Protectors; from when Officer Norman mysteriously lost his Kevlar vest and Officer Gomez said he misplaced a specific "packaged item" of his. It had been a week from when she had spoken with Dan Lee; a week filled with cheap heroics performed by the Protectors. However, the night patrol managed to uncover a few more vicious assaults on men who were nearly beaten to death. But, there was no indication that a Protector had done it, though some suspicions arose. The assailant even left a calling card. When she told this to her parents, her father immediately spit out his coffee.

Now, she was at the office, bored and ready to head back to the Veidt University apartments. Lasko told her he had a few things to take care of and that when he arrived, they could call it a night. She leaned back in her chair with her hands behind her head, and stared at the ceiling while other detectives stressed out about other things.

Almost immediately after her last train of thought passed, footsteps rushed up the stairs and one of the other detectives emerged to the offices, storming right through the place and into the commissioner's office. The commissioner was already ready to head out and leave the place to the night shift.

Everyone looked into the commissioner's room, but their vision was blocked when the commissioner closed the blinds. More footsteps came from downstairs and Lasko emerged, wondering why everyone was staring at the commissioner's office. He carefully strode towards Diana, but at the middle of his stride, the door swung open and the commissioner's head popped out.

"Hollis!" he said. He located Diana and motioned her to come over. "Wait. Where the hell's your partner?"

Lasko raised a hand.

"You two, get in here," he barked. Then he pointed to the rest of the people in the room. "You guys get back to work."

Diana and Lasko entered the commissioner's room and he promptly shut the door behind them, giving Lasko a glare as he went back to his desk. It was a motion that Diana barely caught, and suspicions arose. This could be more about Lasko than it was about her. Commissioner Vallon looked down at his desk, seeming as though he was contemplating something, then looked back up at them.

"Sergei Kirilenko was found dead an hour ago," he told them. "I want you guys to go and scope out the scene."

"Was it a hit?" Diana asked.

"If it was a hit, we'd have known," Lasko told her.

"Yes. We would have," Vallon told them. "Now, there hasn't been a real serious crime in this city for years. Not one this vicious and intentional. I need you to go and report back to me."

Lasko swallowed and looked down. "I'll go get ready. See you in a bit, Hollis."

Usually he would be a wise-ass about this, but he seemed to be more sober about it. Diana looked around, trying to analyze the glances between Lasko and the Commissioner, but she did not get the entire picture, and more importantly, she was too afraid to ask. Vallon walked over to his scotch and poured a drink.

"What the hell's wrong with this world?" he then asked her. "Do you know?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. He seemed to be asking her with gut-honesty, and she had difficulty answering.

"Why would you ask me that?"

"You're young. You must have some kind of understanding," he said. But in just a flash, he was chuckling to himself. "Ah, but the youth don't need to worry about these things. It's always good guys and bad guys with you, right? It's either that or immoral ways to gain profit."

"What do you mean, sir?"

He took a deep sip and poured some more. "I mean that this world's so goddamn unpredictable that I can't even sleep one second without getting a call that a baby's been found in the dumpster and to be thankful to god that journalists wouldn't give a shit because they're so in love with the idea of this city."

She did not move, and watched as Vallon made his way back to his desk.

"It's different when you're young," he told her. "Few of us have the capacity to understand."

"Understand what, sir?"

"How horrible it is. More importantly, how indifferent it all really is. And even more important than that, that it's never changed. You think it's a new threat, but it's never really new. It's just another _product_," he said. Then, he leaned back and gave her a frown. "The greatest wisdom of all is to understand that there is nothing to understand. There are so few people I've known that grant themselves such knowledge."

"And should I permit myself this knowledge, too, sir?"

"You're still young," he then smiled. "You're still concerned about drama and what's next. Don't worry about it. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. I also understand that you haven't gotten your hands dirty before."

"I haven't."

He nodded surprisingly. "Oh. That's good. Thank God for you."

She was not sure if she should thank him or not.

"Well, go on," Vallon then said. "Lasko's probably freezing his ass off waiting for you."

She nodded and exited the room, quickly snatching her jacket off the desk and heading downstairs to the car, where Lasko was waiting. The conversation between her and Vallon was still lingering in her mind, and she wondered what he was speaking about, and even more importantly, wondered if she would come to understand things the way he understood them. Apathy. She simplified his words to one entity. Unlocking the car, they both got inside and had not exchanged words. She expected him to ask her what the commissioner spoke with her about, but he was reserved and quiet.

"Can we go?" he asked impatiently. "Turn on the heat. My asscheeks are practically frozen."

They drove for awhile before she started having questions about Kirilenko and why Lasko's reaction was so strange. Was it something bigger than she imagined?

"You know anything about this?" Diana asked Lasko.

* * *

Dan was a bit angry that he didn't get to clean the Comedian's 1911 Custom, so he would have to aim for someone of lower status tonight. And he chose Kirilenko. It wouldn't be hard. He spent the rest of the day yesterday eyeing how the restaurant operated, and it really wasn't as clever as he had perceived. The setup was quite simple, so this attack would hit them like cold water. He had his utility belt on, and he frowned that it wasn't full of tools yet. He still had to find more useful things as he continued on. At the moment, all he had was his combat knife.

Then there was a knock at his door. The sound from down the hallway had been blaring with music all night, and he wasn't surprised that the landlady, Ms. Palmer, didn't do anything about it. While the kids were either asleep or hiding fearfully under their beds, she was shooting up in her room to the point where she could be dead. Not that it bothered him. At least he wouldn't have to pay rent until a new landlord or landlady was crowned.

He walked up and went to the door, dressed only in his undershirt and pants. Peeking through the hole, he noticed on the other side the woman that was waiting. It was that same woman who ordered that little punk down the hall to shut off his music last week. From the way that she frequently dressed before going out (like she was dressed tonight), she was probably a stripper. Scum like the rest of them. She seemed to stare off into space, annoyed that she even had to come knocking at his door. Dan sighed and opened the door just a bit.

"Yes?" he asked.

"It's Damian, right?" she asked, her smile barely fazing him.

Dan thought for a second.

"Yeah."

"Damian, do you have a broom? I misplaced mine, and I need to just use it really quick before I leave for work."

He refrained himself from staring at her shapely body, and instead gave her a long stare, which she did not find awkward, actually. Instead, she smiled at him and kept nice manners. Whores were never nice like that, and he suspected something else.

"Pretty please?" she asked again.

"Will you bring it back?"

People usually gave him shit for asking questions like that, but even more surprising was that she only nodded.

"Yeah! No big deal. I'll bring it right back when I'm finished."

He nodded and paused for a second, thinking about how it would work out. Then, he gestured for her to wait while he went to grab his broom. He brought it back to the door and opened it, handing it to her while staring directly into her eyes, a habit that often made people uncomfortable, but she found it to be normal and probably even pleasing.

"I'm going out, too," he then told her. She raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Really? Like, say, a club? Maybe we'll see each other."

He shook his head. "No. Restaurant."

"Oh? So who's the date?"

"Russian," was all he said. "So, keep the broom for tonight. Bring it back tomorrow. I wouldn't want you to leave it at the door for anyone to steal it."

She smiled at him, and it reminded him of Diana's smile, but this one was more understanding. Instead of Diana's insinuations on topics such as heroin, she seemed to be somewhat amused, yet understanding of why he acted the way he acted.

"You're probably referring to Benny."

"Who's Benny?"

"That skinny guy down the hall blasting his music. That's Benny."

Dan nodded. "Oh."

"You lived here for years now," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You don't know who Benny is?"

"Never cared."

"Oh," she replied in the same manner that he did just a second ago. That comment caused her to slightly look away with disdain.

"Anyway, tell him to shut off his music. It's probably giving the children headaches."

The disdain almost disappeared when she heard his response. "Yeah. I'll do that."

Dan shut the door without saying goodbye, or asking for her name, even. She was somewhat irritating in the way that she was not like everyone else. The way she dressed was just like those whores down in the streets that shouted sexually degrading comments at him whenever he ignored them. Still, she countered his doubts with politeness, though he was more than willing to suspect that her decadence would never falter. She was beyond saving. Humans had a way like that.

He waited for her to head back to her room and got dressed in his things. In about five minutes, the landlady would (hopefully) shut off the hallway lights. Dan threw the black coat on after fitting on the face. Fitting on the hat, he stared at himself in the mirror for a few moments, and put his hands in his pockets. The way the clothes wrapped his build made him imposing to stare at, and he found a sort of satisfaction to hide behind a mask like this. At least he could bear to look at it. And the best part of all was that he could finally show his true face.

And now he was ready. Rorschach begins.

* * *

"It was all so fast," she told the detective taking down notes. "I was just in the bathroom."

"It's fine, miss," Detective Hollis told her. "Just tell me what you saw."

She was cold, and even the warm tears down her eyes could not keep her from disappearing into the abyss. "I wasn't supposed to see anything like that tonight. My God, his—his face…"

_"I'll be right back," she told the other three. It was a double date that her friend insisted her on coming. "See you in a bit."_

_As she winked away, only her friend knew why she was leaving. She made her way past the bartender and those dog-hungry stares of other men in the room, intentionally giving a bit more life into her stride to attract attention. As she pushed the door open to the bathroom, she realized that the door to the back was ajar. Hastily, she went to the bathroom, rushed into one of the stalls, and opened her bag, snatching the pack of powder and readying herself for the hit._

_After she finished powdering her nose, she closed her bag, flushed the toilet, and headed back out. The door was still ajar._

"A-and it was all happening so fast. It's hard to remember things right now," she told the female detective.

"Just tell me anything you can recall. Even small details that you think wouldn't help."

"I…I…"

_Feeling as though she were invisible, she crept into the back hallway and hid behind a few boxes, giggling to herself and how she'd get into so much trouble if she got caught. From down the hallway, there was a man coming back, dressed in a suit. He seemed to be returning to guard the door to the back room, but just as he was about to pass the boxes, someone called him from down the hallway._

_They spoke in Russian. The man calling him expressed immediate concern, and he rushed back down. It was then that she moved away from the boxes and stood right in the middle of the hallway, ready to call out the Russians like she was playing hide and seek._

_Then, the lights went out. The two Russians looked up and down the hallway, spotting the girl, but were more concerned about what was happening._

_"Hey you!" one of them shouted in a heavy accent. "What are you doing here?"_

_Concern began to escalate in the restaurant area as the jazz band stopped playing and customers looked around blindly. The maitre d' was already trying to keep them calm while they assessed the problem. She, too, was feeling that something was wrong. Being high at the moment probably wasn't a good idea, either, since she couldn't think straight—or see straight for that matter._

The blanket thrown around her had trouble keeping her warm. "It was black. The two men…they had no chance."

_"Are you deaf, little girl? I said what—"_

_A cutting sound could be heard, and the man's talking immediately stopped, replaced only by a death groan. The other man, still a decent distance away, watched fearfully at the sound of darkness. And, in only a few seconds, a body dropped to the ground, along with the clank of the weapon that he was holding. The other man wondered what had just happened._

_"What was that?" she asked._

_He shushed her._

_"What was it?"_

_"Shut up!"_

_Footsteps echoed and the man grabbed his extendable baton. But what would he hit at? Ghosts? He swung emptily a few times, poorly misjudging the distance between him and the other person that was clearly in the room with them._

_"Who the are you?" the Russian man shouted. "I fuck you up! I kill you and your family, asshole!"_

_She stepped back as the footsteps amplified. From the other room, there were already flashlights being passed around between staff members, some nearly ready to head back. Some light broke into the small hallway, and the Russian man scooted back behind it, his breaths quickening with every passing moment._

_"Boss!" the man shouted._

_And when she thought she was ready to pass out, she saw the figure step into the dim light that had cracked into the door ajar. That face. The way it writhed like it was alive. It seemed unworldly, and by reaction, she tried to shriek, but her voice was lost. And then, she realized that she could not breathe. The Russian man angrily took a swing at the intruder, but the intruder seemed to be a part of the shadows, easily slipping past the clumsy bodyguard. The intruder caught the bodyguard's arm and like a swallowing beast, he wrapped his way around the arm and tossed the Russian to the ground easily, twisting and snapping the bone that held the baton. The Russian grunted and tried to fight back, but a quick slice shut his voice off. The shadow arose once again, and she made out the face, even in the dark._

_It was staring at her. She blocked her view with an arm and prayed for salvation._

_"What the hell is going on out there?" the boss shouted, exiting his room._

_The footsteps stormed past her and she heard a large crash as the boss was easily incapacitated, trying to shout for help, but silenced by a quick strike to the throat. The man dropped to the ground, and the small light from the other room silhouetted the intruder as he gave her one last glare._

"He dragged the man into the room," she told the detective, "and he shut the door. Then I blacked out."

Detective Hollis put a hand on her shoulder and gave a comforting smile that did not help alleviate the traumatic experience she just had earlier.

"You're a brave girl and this has been a great help to us," she told her. "Thank you. I think your parents are here. You're from Newland Heights?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"That's a nice neighborhood. I'm from there, too. What's your name?"

"Mandy," she told the detective.

"I'm Detective Diana Hollis," the detective said to her, reaching into her pocket for a card. She handed the card to Mandy and gave a comforting gesture. "If you'd like to speak about this further, I'm always free to talk."

Mandy nodded. "Okay…"

Diana watched the watchmen pull the young girl away to her parents, now wondering what her next move would be. There was so much information all of a sudden, and this murder would surely prove her worthy of her job if she could solve it. Work, at last, would count towards saving lives, even if those lives where of criminals like Kirilenko.

"His face," she called out to Mandy. "What did it look like?"

"It was black ink," Mandy replied, turning around. "Converging."


	6. Chills

**Hey, guys, sorry I haven't updated in two weeks. I'm sad to say that I also (probably) won't be updating for quite awhile because I'm going to be really busy finishing up the rest of my school year. But, if I can work on it, I will.**

**Anyway, enough of that stuff. Here's chapter 6, and it slightly expands on a new character introduced in Chapter 5, that character being Dan's neighbor. This chapter almost completely revolves around Dan and his descent into the Rorschach role, save for one section involving Diana and Lasko's investigation. Hope you enjoy. Also, thanks for the reviews, guys. It's really motivating to see readers actively engaged into the story.**

**Chapter 6: Chills**

The bell ringing at Dan's door had some kind of rude abruptness to it. He was almost afraid that it was the police, but when he rushed out of bed to look through the eyehole of the door, it was that intrusive neighbor from next door whom he had lent his broom to last night. Dan felt like he needed to dress, but he realized that he wasn't going to be speaking to her long anyway and slightly opened it.

"Yeah?" he asked.

She looked at him with a surprised face, probably in response to how messy his hair was or how lazy he looked. He didn't care at the moment. "Did you just wake up, Damian?"

"Uh," he stared over at his digital clock. 1:52 PM. "No. Who's Damian?"

Her eyebrow slightly twitched, and he realized what he had just said.

"Oh, right. Yeah. Damian," Dan mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "That's uh, that's…"

He yawned.

"My name. Right."

"Must've been a rough night," she told him, brushing back her blonde hair, which definitely wasn't natural blonde. She probably dyed it.

Dan, being tired and slightly disoriented, gave her a sassy scowl. "Yeah, you _would_ know what it's like."

The last girl he had been sassy with slapped him right across the face, nearly bringing him to tears of bitter defeat and a week-long withdrawal. This was back in high school.

"Ooh," she said. "Do I detect sarcasm in your voice? I didn't think you were the type to speak to people much."

"Just not you."

She then laughed and gave him a nod. "Okay. Well, it was nice talking to you, too…whatever your name is."

Her arm extended to him and she handed the broom back. "I'm Alex, by the way."

He stared at her blankly.  
"…aren't you going to tell me your real name? I hate to have to ask the landlady, because she'd kind of a…well…a bitch."

Right then, he nearly laughed at her reluctance to use foul language. Her kind was quite fond of being vulgar; maybe she was trying to behave in front of him.

"It's Dan."

Dan reached for his broom, and upon grabbing it, they traded a strange glance, both not knowing what to do next. Then, Dan's hand began shaking up and down like a handshake and she returned the favor, both shaking the broom in their hands.

"Never had a broom shake with someone before. Nice to meet you, Danny."

He slightly squinted. "Hurm."

Then he closed the door. What an annoying woman. He hated how she sauntered her way back to her room when he peeked through the eyehole again. He hated the way her womanly assets moved so crudely, with no shame that she was a sexually deviant character, even if today she was not dressed in her whore clothing or wearing her whore makeup. What he detested most, though, was that she tried to soften him with her kindness and naiveté, a method that reeked of deception to her true character. At least, that's what he thought. If she was trying to be nice on purpose so that she could use his things, she was certainly a good actor about it. He hated that, too.

Shaking his head, he knew he had other things to attend to. He had a conversation with one of the workers a few nights ago, and arranged a meeting with a certain someone. The meeting would be today.

* * *

"Any kind of help you could offer would be much needed, sir," she said, pacing around the office.

"Hey, I don't know anything about no murder or nothin' like that," said the black man. "I just run a cleaning service, y'all."

Lasko rubbed his eyes, still tired from having to wake up so early this morning. "A couple days ago your 'cleaning service' came over to the department and it just-so-happened that we lost a Kevlar vest that day. One of those military ones, too, that can stop knives and soften gunfire."

"So? That has nothing to do with me."

"One of your men was probably in the locker room," Diana said.

"You got footage of that?"

She sighed. "No. But one moment, he was standing near the entrance and the next moment, he was gone."

"That don't mean anything. Look, guys, I really have no idea what's going on here, and how I'm connected to this."

Judging by his sincerity and the fact that Lasko didn't barge in like he owned the place (indicating that the business was dirty), she realized that there really could have been no connection to the murder. But this was the only lead she had. There were no fingerprints and no trace of hair or anything. The killer swept in and out.

"Can you give us a list of your employees, then? Or at least the employee that was on our security cams?"

"No," the man said.

Now he was hiding something for sure. She caught the sudden change in seating position that Lasko shifted to and knew that he caught it, too.

Then Lasko stood up and gave the man a very sharp, piercing glare that almost frightened Diana. He looked at the pinned photograph on the cheap bulletin in the office and walked over to look at the family photos of the man and his wife and two children. There was a smile.

"Nice family you've got here," he said. "Your wife…does she work?"

The man glanced around insecurely. "…yes."

"You look like you're the kind of guy who has two cars," Lasko then said. "You've got two cars, don't you?"

"Just the company one and the—"

"Oh, a 2004 Toyota Corolla," Lasko interrupted, pointing at another photo pinned on the bulletin. "I see. A red Corolla. Your wife like that color or something?"

"Y-yeah. She picked it out."

"Ah," Lasko nodded. Diana watched carefully. "She must be a pretty fiery woman."

"…she is."

Lasko chuckled. "Probably caused you a lot of fun trouble, too. You must enjoy toying with danger."

The man finally had the courage to ask him, "I don't understand where you're going with this, officer."

"It's detective," her partner corrected. "You know, officers are kind of like the eyes of this city. The night watchmen. If they are the eyes, then SWAT are the arms. The DA is the heart and the legs, because without the lawyers in the district office, our department wouldn't be alive for another second. At least, that's what it's originally like. If the watchmen are the eyes, and Special Forces are the arms and the DA is the heart and the legs, then the detectives are the brains. They do all the mind work."

Lasko began pacing around while he explained the metaphorical standing of the law, which somewhat amused her because most of it seemed improvised.

"And you know, often times they get to bend a few laws, and when they realize that the forces of evil are too great to measure, they must break them. They might even _work_ with evil to equalize the crime on the streets, what you, an honest-to-God working man who probably sits at home and watches those Protector broadcasts, call corruption," he stated. "I mean, I don't think you're the type of guy who is smart enough to blow in the direction of the wind. But I am. I'm a detective. I'm the brains, so I have to be smart, because crime is everywhere. We just know when it's going to happen, and why. Why? Because we're connected to everyone in order to keep the peace by any means necessary. It's been such a long time that I've had to investigate a crime that I _didn't_ know about. And I won't lie to you. It's exciting. Chilling to the _bone_."

"What's your point, detective?"

"You're fucking lying to me," Lasko accused clearly. "And by God, if I figure out that this killer is who we think he is, I'm going to pummel you down so hard that you'd have to whore out your wife to survive. And I can arrange that."

By now, Lasko's face was so close to the man that the man could have imploded from the tension. Nervously, the business owner slightly scooted away in his seat and tried to catch a breath, his face flushed. Diana was impressed at the intimidation method that Lasko had used on him; it seemed to work.

"He doesn't work for me," the man said.

Diana stepped forward while Lasko stepped back. "Who is he?"

"He said that he was IA, and that he was investigating your department."

"Internal Affairs?" Lasko questioned with bewilderedness. "Internal Affairs ain't got shit. Mickey Delahunt has the department in his pockets. Hell, he might even work for federal. Who knows? IA hasn't a brave soul to investigate anything."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did he show you a badge?"

"No."

Lasko's eyes widened. "And you believed him, you piece of shit?"

"Lasko," Diana immediately said, trying to tame him. "Easy."

He fixed his leather jacket and turned around, refusing to face the man until something useful came about.

"That's all I know."

"Any descriptions? What did he look like?"

The man scooted his chair back into place. "I couldn't tell that well. His skin was kinda dark, but a bit too unnaturally dark, you know? Like it wasn't his natural color. He could have been Filipino or Mexican or Dominican or Cambodian or something. I don't know."

Diana nodded. "Alright. I think that'll be enough for now, Mr. Williams. Contact us if you have any more information that would help. Otherwise, we'll call you."

Lasko was already out the door, and after giving the owner of the cleaning company her card, she exited the building and went right into her vehicle. The skies were painted with a light gray, and though it was perfectly possible that it would rain later, she knew that it wasn't going to rain anytime soon. Her partner was waiting in the car, going through his cell phone. When she entered, he put his phone away and looked at her.

"Now what?" he asked.

"You think there's anyone in the boys' locker rooms who might have run into the guy?" she asked.

Lasko shrugged. "Wouldn't know."

"I heard that they discuss deals in there, because there are no cameras. Is that true?"

"Don't know."

She tilted her head just a bit, giving him a suspicious look. "Don't do that to me. We're partners. Do you realize just how insane this killer is, and how many corpses could pile up?"

"Yes."

"No," she told him. "You have no idea. My parents…"

Diana looked away, biting her lip.

"What about them?"

She shook her head. "Nevermind. If you're that worried about me hearing about it, then you go question whoever was in those lockers. The guys would trust you, anyway."

"What are you insinuating?"

"Quit being such a dick and just do it."

Lasko put his hands up. "Hey, don't call me a dick, I'm sensitive."

Diana slightly chuckled as the moment was lightened up just a bit. "Do it, alright?"

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Kirilenko was into heroin," she told him. "And I'm pretty sure Dan's taxi company is trafficking the stuff. I'm going to have to talk to him."

"Oh?" Lasko raised an eyebrow as she started up the vehicle. "And how's your relationship with Mr. Antisocial?"

"Better, I think…" she shrugged. "He seems to be pretty responsive to the smart-and-optimistic-and-innocent girl kind of thing I'm putting on."

"You think he's just a criminal like they are?"

"Not sure," she said. "He doesn't seem like he'd be comfortable to do anything like that."

"You mean he's a pussy?"

"You're unbelievable sometimes," she scoffed, turning the car out of the parking zone. "Way to just put it out there."

It sounded like good fun, but this was Rorschach she was up against. Rorschach. He hasn't been spotted since 1985. And though she knew that Mandy's information could be misleading, she couldn't help but feel that something big was happening in this city. It was quite a chill. Lasko had put it perfectly.

* * *

"Look at this," the man said, sipping his glass of scotch, motioning to the television. "What a joke."

Dan put down his bag and stared around the hotel building before looking at the TV, noticing one of the Protectors helping a man out of his car and giving a thumbs-up to the cameraman. It was Tribal, specifically. She turned her back to the camera and the camera naturally followed down her back as she walked away, displaying her vivaciously athletic curvatures.

The man then shrugged. "Nice ass, though."

He turned around and smiled at Dan, who was still insecure about meeting him.

"Come on, don't be shy," the man, dressed in a fine, tailored suit told him. "I'm not a cop and this place isn't being scoped out. Let's make this short and sweet, huh? What can I do you for?"

"Lenny told me you could help me out with some things," Dan answered.

Lenny had finally recovered from his injuries in that supposed car accident about a week-and-a-half ago. It was pretty funny, too, because the bruises that still blued his skin seemed to be from direct hits, as in he had to have smashed something hard with a relatively small pressure point to get those bruises. Probably pissed off the wrong people. Well, Dan was glad that he at least got a new vehicle. Since Lenny didn't crash the car in the first place, he wondered where it was now.

"Yeah, told me a bit about you. Marine Corps, huh?" the man asked. "How'd that go for you?"

"Four years counting basic training and R&R," Dan replied. "Three tours."

"You're quite the veteran," he replied. "And lemme guess. Come back after war and no job, right?"

"Well, I'm a taxi driver."

The man then laughed out loud. "You're a funny guy, you know that? A taxi driver. Wow, that was a good laugh. I'm talking about a real job. You ever consider being a merc?"  
"You mean, working for Bloodwater?" Dan asked.

"Yeah."

He then shook his head. "No."

"No? Why not?"

"They're a bunch of money-grubbing assholes," Dan said with no apologies.

"Interesting. Did they ever offer you special ops or anything?"

"I didn't pass."

"Ouch, man. I don't wanna know. What can I do for you?"

Dan reached into the bag that he had brought with him and pulled out the Comedian's old 1911 custom and showed it to the gun salesman.

"No bullets," Dan told him.

The salesman, getting right down to business, put away his scotch and examined the gun right away. He was probably a gunsmith, too, judging from the careful examination he did on the weapon. A few nods here and there was all he gave Dan before setting it down on the bed.

"It's old, man," the salesman told him. "Some of the parts still might be good for circulation, but since you're a friend of Lenny's, I'll cut you a special deal. I brought a new customized 1911 with me."

He then walked over to his luggage and put it on the bed. Then, he unzipped the bag and opened it, displaying a nice selection of weapons that seemed to be quite new considering the sheen and polish. The salesman ran his fingertips over a few of them and grabbed the silver 1911 with a modernized black grip and showed it to Dan. Dan scrutinized it.

"You know what you're holding there?" the man said. "You're holding the finest hand-made weapon you've ever seen."

And it certainly was. Dan could point out all sorts of things that were excellent about the 1911.

"Good feed ramp," Dan commented, pulling back the slide. "Reinforced slide. Replaced frame. Checkered front grip. Ring hammer."

He examined it some more, ejecting the magazine and pulling the trigger. "Lighter trigger weight. The mag well has been widened for easier reloading. Cut down magazine catch. Flat mainspring housing and cocking serrations."

"Wow, I've never met anyone who could list it like that. You a gun enthusiast?"

"No," Dan told him. "Just had a lot of time on my hands."

Aiming the gun in a tactical manner, Dan realized that the man was not kidding. The gun handled beautifully, and damn near flawlessly. He'd have to install the Comedian's handgrips later, but a newer, better version of the 1911 would prove much easier to use.

"Yep. That thing'll put holes into any one of those scumbags out on the streets if they get too close to your cab. Lenny's been satisfied with his stuff. I hope you'll be, too."

"How much?"

"For you? I'll put it at a grand. That's cheap considering that this thing can go for two or three in most places."

Dan reached into his jacket pocket and grabbed the money he had brought, but as he was counting it, he eyed the other pistols inside the salesman's briefcase. Perhaps one gun wouldn't be enough.

"How much for that Mark 23 there?" Dan asked.

The salesman, surprised, reached over for the H&K Mark 23 SOCOM, a tactical pistol designed specifically for military personnel. He had one when he was still out in the Middle East, but had to turn it back into the Corps when he decided to live in the city. A very accurate gun. How the salesman got a hold of such a handgun was beyond his speculation, since tactical weapons were some of the hardest to get.

"This? It goes for $500. Special deal. Reliable, but most of the assholes I sell guns to don't really dig tactical-looking weapons. Not that I'm calling you an asshole or anything. Most people would just rather get one that looks like Dirty Harry's."

"A quick draw outdoes a power gun any day," Dan said.

He needed one more backup, and this one had to be small.

"Got any revolvers?" Dan then asked.

"How about a .38 Smith and Wesson?" he recommended. "Reliable."

"The black one. And I'll take some rounds."

"This one will be $200. Total will be $1700 plus another $100 for the rounds," the salesman totaled up. "Lucky that you're a friend of Lenny's, otherwise I could be charging you more than $3000 here. I'll throw in a three-gun chest holster and a cleaning kit, too, free of charge."

Dan gave the man the cash and received his things, placing them into the bag, along with the vest holster, which would prove much useful especially if he wasn't wearing his face and was attacked. He grabbed the Comedian's old 1911 and shoved it back in there, too.

"By the way," the man said as he packed up. "You ever thought of looking for a real job in this town? I mean, I'm not recommending Bloodwater, but you know…a job. You look like you can handle yourself."

"You mean with Mickey Delahunt?" Dan asked, calling the man by name.

"Well…yeah."

Almost immediately, he answered. "Who can I contact?"

"I'm not the guy who can get you in. You'll probably have to see Frank, one of the captains in this area," he replied. "He hangs out at the Parker's Gym and visits the sporting goods store across the street often."

"Alright."

The television was still on, with news of the Protectors and their good deeds to the public, barely even scratching the surface of this city's face. The gunrunner turned to face it for a quick moment, and poured himself another drink while Dan packed his things, keeping an attentive ear to what was happening on the television.

"It's too perfect," the salesman said. "Look at them, smiling and posing for the camera."

"They're probably media distractions sanctioned by Adrian Veidt to exploit the unrest in the poor areas," Dan commented.

"Isn't that a little paranoid?"

" Considering Veidt, I don't think so," he replied. "Probably still misses the whole Crimebusters thing."

Taking another sip from the drink, the businessman sat on the bed and began putting his things away. Dan had finished packing and stood there. Were they going to walk out together? Or were they going to split up?

"Tells a lot about a man if he does these things just to do them," the merchant spoke. "I mean, sometimes there's little to no reason why these things happen. They're just impulses. Desires. Kind of simplifies the world. Maybe Veidt doesn't even care about the poor, and that he just misses the old days of glory and…whatever. What drives men to do these things?"

"What drives you to sell weapons?"

He smirked. "What drives you to _buy_ them?"

Dan scowled in return.

"Well, you seem pretty driven," said the salesman, pointing at him. "I take one look at you and I see intensity. Passion. Maybe even obsession. But I don't know what drives you to do this. And frankly, I don't care. Why should I? You make me richer."

Still, he stood there, and waited for the gunrunner to finish, grasping the leather handle of the small bag he brought along with him.

"Then I ask myself in the first place: What drives men to buy an instrument that can end another man's life? Shit, children could be killing fathers and fathers killing mothers and mothers killing children. Most of us are just caught in the middle."

The salesman, now becoming sentimental, shook his head and put his drink away, probably realizing that it has caused him to speak so much. He finished packing his things, and after a few moments, finally realized that his customer hadn't left yet. Then, in that instant, Dan turned around and headed for the door, leaving him behind. As he opened the door to leave, he looked over his shoulder. A raspy, growly voice emerged from the silhouette.

"Some of us break in two. Some of us do something about it. Some of us take it as a joke."

The man looked up, blinded by the light but able to make out the silhouette of the figure in front of him. The figure brought a hat up to his head and fixed it on, the outline painting a lonesome yet ferocious creature, unworldly and frightening.

"Isn't that what it is in the end? A joke? Don't you think it's funny?"

Rorschach grunted. "I've heard the joke before. It wasn't funny the first time around, and it still isn't."

The man reached for his drink, but instead stopped and waited for the silhouette to leave him in peace.

"The possible ranks higher than the actual."

And before he left, Rorschach made one last statement.

"Heidegger. Read the obituaries."

* * *

Dan shut his door and locked it, securing his apartment from anyone who might try to break in. He glanced at his watch.

10:00 PM.

Taking a breath, he put the fedora on his head and kept the face inside the jacket pocket. His coat was inside the cab, and he'd have to find some way to fill up the thing with cash if he didn't want Johnson to give him any trouble later. But he was no thief. Maybe he should quit instead, but what would he do? Be a homeless man like Kovacs, disappearing into anonymity? Dan shook his head, realizing that his lifestyle was nothing like Kovacs. Where Kovacs's home was crude and near uninhabitable, his was always neat, organized, and fresh. When Ms. Palmer came to collect the monthly rent, she even stayed for another few seconds because the entire room didn't stink of cigarette smoke like hers.

Nonetheless, Dan had to find a way. Now that he had been devoting time to doing something meaningful, the days seemed to pass like a breeze in the air.

"Going out?"

Dan turned to his right to face Alex, the whore neighbor that had borrowed his broom earlier. He spent some time cleaning it after she had returned it out of distrust and slight bitterness, picking out the lint or bits of trash stuck between the broom's bristles.

"It's for my job," he said without looking at her, his eyes shaded underneath the fedora.

She walked up to him, but he did not face her, instead still looking down at the doorknob, pulling out the key after locking it.

"Nice hat."

When he finally did turn to face her, he realized how differently she was dressed tonight. The long black dress probably made of luxurious silk fell down her body nicely, accentuating her curves and fitness.

"What do you do for a living?" Dan found himself asking.

A surprised look tugged her expression. "Why?"

"I have prejudgments."

She brushed her neatly done blonde hair to the side. "Or more like misjudgments."

He smirked just slightly to her reply, though it was probably too small for her to see it. "If you won't answer the question, then I'm wasting my time."

"I'm a singer," she said. "At the Basis."

"The Basis?"

"A jazz club," Alex continued, annoyed and possibly offended. "What, did you think I was some kind of _exotic_ dancer? A prostitute, even?"

Dan gave her a smirk-scowl and turned to head down the stairs. As he ignored her, she let out a gasp and followed him down, angry that he just walked away. Even if he wasn't very nice, he should at least have the decency to end a conversation. When she caught up with him at the exit to the parking lot, she tried to stop him for a few more words.

"Hey. I'm talking to you," she dared, raising her voice.

Like she was going to punish him for anything. Dan stopped in his tracks and turned around.

"Yeah? Offended?" Dan asked, his face suddenly close to hers, daring her right back. "Because I thought you were someone else?"

Then she stopped, and even wanted to back away. Though he wasn't that tall, his compact build made him seemingly frightening, especially with the fedora on. The anger inside her immediately passed and she waited for him to finish. When Dan had enough of her fear and cowardice, he backed off.

"So you're a beautiful woman," he said, not impressed. "But this is a dark city. With dark corners. You might as well walk around naked to make it easier for the junkies and rapists."

She didn't respond, and he glared right into her. Honestly, he had much more to add, but he needed to be elsewhere.

"I assume from your silence that you have no more to say," he stated. "Neither do I."

With an icy growl, Dan turned around and left the building.

* * *

"Damn jungle bunnies," said Johnny, shaking his head. "Never have enough money."

"Fuck you," replied Stacks, the only black man in their operation. They all chuckled, but were starting to lose patience with the homeless black man at the front register. Frank was not eager, however, and seemed busy.

"Probably a junkie," said Frank, a thin, but muscular man who was probably a health enthusiast. He was reading the monthly Sports Illustrated while waiting inside the sporting goods across the street from his gym.

"I'ma go take a leak," Johnny told him. "So wait up for me."

Stacks followed him. "I'm goin' too."

Frank waved his hand to shoo them away and they were gone.

Johnny and Stacks headed down the aisles, past the hiking boots to the right and the winter running gear to the left. They were not complex men, as he observed, though they could be a problem because of their enormous sizes from their time put into the gym. They were quite simple, making sexual gestures past fit suburban mothers and racial jokes towards one another as they continued. It would be easy.

The two went past the row of baseball equipment and prepared to head into the bathroom, but just as they were about to head into the area, a man emerged from the men's room door, sporting a black coat that ended at the knees and a black fedora. There was some kind of sock on his face.

"…the hell is this?" asked Stacks as the figure stepped by, standing next to the row of baseball bats.

"Must talk to Frank," said Rorschach. "Now."

"You ain't talkin' to no one, little man," said Johnny, who was a good few inches taller than his adversary.

"Fuck his lil' punk ass up," said Stacks.

Johnny looked over his shoulder to glance at his friend and he smiled, ready to get rid of the punk in front of him.

Then a baseball bat smashed him in the side of the head, breaking his head open and smashing the artery. Johnny immediately collapsed to the ground like a large African elephant that had just been shot with an enormously powerful rifle. Dead weight. Before Stacks could react, Rorschach had smashed his right knee with the bat and caused him to grunt in agonizing pain. He couldn't even scream in time as the bat came and shattered his jaw and knocked him to the ground.

Rorschach let out a growl and after watching the two bodies lay there for a moment, he hung the bat back up on the bat rack and put his hands in his coat, casually walking away. Frank should not be far, and it would be easy since Rorschach had already snuck in the back and removed the security tape to avoid any heat against him. Passing by some baseballs, he decided to take two.

At last, the homeless man had finished. Frank put down his Sports Illustrated and grinned at the woman behind the register, giving her the pair of weightlifting gloves he was going to buy. She returned her smile when he winked, and he could tell that she was obviously younger than him by a good decade or so.

"Ain't seen you around before," he said.

"Just got here from Newland Heights," she stated. "Goin' to college at the University."

"Oh. Rich girl," he nodded. "Is that workin' out for you?"

The woman smiled. "Kind of, yeah. But I don't really know the place, so the nights are kind of boring."

"You looking for clubs or parties or what? I know all the hot spots around town and at the university," he then said. "Maybe I could take you to one. Show you around."

She played with her blonde hair and chewed her gum, giving him an aroused stare. "Yeah, we could do that."

He leaned in just slightly. "I could show you many things."

She smiled sultrily. "Yeah?"

"Yeah—"

A baseball hit him in the head and he fell over. Her jaw dropped and the gum fell out of her mouth as she backed away from her spot, ready to attend to him.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "Are you okay?"

Groaning, he sat back up and rubbed the spot on his head where it had hit him. When he was ready to get up and find the jackass who did that to him, another ball hit him right in the nose, causing him to fall back again. Immediately, Frank stood up and checked his nose to see if it was bleeding, but thankfully, it wasn't a direct hit. He pulled out his knife and the woman shrieked while he searched the area, finally spotting the coated man walking towards him.

"You little shit…"

Frank tried to stab him, but Rorschach swiftly caught his arm and jabbed him in the face. In a flash, Rorschach put him in a grip and pivoted the arm backwards, and while Frank was stunned, he directed all of his energy to the arm with the knife, sinking it right into Frank's shoulder.

Before there was a shriek, Rorschach wrapped his arm around Frank's throat and in a chokehold, pulled him out of the sporting goods store, leaving the woman behind. They exited the doors and the vigilante dragged him into the alleyway, grabbing him by his collars and slamming him on the hard concrete wall.

"Holy Christ!" Frank shouted, still agonizing over the knife wound. "Jesus!"

"Three seconds," Rorschach grunted, the ink blots compulsively changing. "Delahunt. How do I get to him?"

Tiredly, Frank shook his head. "I…I don't know…"

Rorschach's hand went up to the knife, still in Frank's shoulder, and twisted it just slightly, causing a squeal to emerge from Frank's lungs like some kind of sick animal.

"Okay, okay! Please, don't kill me! I've never killed anyone in my life, I swear it!"

"Delahunt," Rorschach persisted. "Now. Counting to three."

Frank shut his eyes, and there was a silence. When he opened them again, Rorschach was still waiting for an answer.

"Wait, are you counting?" Frank asked.

"In my head," Rorschach said, jabbing him in the stomach. "Delahunt. Tell me now."

Frank sighed and he managed to groan out the information. "Mickey Delahunt. H-his front is at The Andale Hotel. You can get in as one of the staff. He never checks the staff."

The ink blots slowed down as Rorschach's breathing became noticeable and slow, as if he was pondering over something. Could it have been that simple?

"Hurm," Rorschach wondered. "Too easy."

"No! God, no, I'm tellin' you the truth!" Frank insisted. "The gangsters, they're all complacent and shit. D-Delahunt doesn't think he can be touched. It's easier than you think."

And after a few spare moments, Rorschach pulled the knife out of Frank and let him go. He was just a small fish, and would capture far too much attention for Rorschach's own liking. Frank slid down to a sitting position on the wall and Rorschach began to walk away. But before leaving, he turned to face Frank one more time.

"If lying," he started, "you'll die. Speak about me, you'll die. Better lay low for awhile. Be seeing you."

Rorschach turned back and left, looking up at the sky for a quick moment before turning his head down, snuggling inside his coat. It was going to rain soon, and he had to act quickly. There would be a news report on Kirilenko's death tonight, and from there, it would be a shitstorm of paranoia, both in the public and the politicians. The cops must be after him, as well, since that girl had spotted him when he went after the Russian. No doubt she talked to them. Next time, he'd have to be more careful. Hell, if cops were corrupt, then they could have notified Delahunt by now.

Speed and precision were now key, and Rorschach didn't have the time for elaborate planning. To make things unpredictable and chilling, he'd have to take down Delahunt.

Tonight.


	7. False Angels

**Well, it's been a really, really, really, really, really long time since I've updated, mostly because I ran into a few bumps and was busy with other things, but now I'm here and this chapter is finished. It focuses almost entirely on Dan and only has one section of Diana. A lot of it is action and movement and plot, but this chapter has its moments. Hope you like. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 7: False Angels**

_Rorschach's Journal_

_December 24th, 2009_

_Even in filthy parts of town there is Holiday spirit. Insulting. How could filthy people living in filthy areas celebrate their filthy lives? Much work to be done. Much work. Tonight, Delahunt must fall from the skies. Must cut down his fake wings and show them the truth. That they__can__be touched. False angels dominating a land of depravity and insolence. I will topple him from his throne and when his body falls, they shall look up and see._

_There is only me._

* * *

"Harrison, Nichols, Benitez, and Lee!" shouted one of the soldiers, handing out the mail for the day.

Dan received his mail and walked back to the table inside the bar. He and his squad were spending their time inside the city, leaving the worries of the battlefield behind for the precious days that they had on R&R.

Normally, they would just do email. But, today was Christmas Eve, so there were packages for everyone.

"Hey!" Benitez exclaimed. "My lil' mamacita's given birth to our baby girl!"

Everyone gathered around Benitez and looked at the picture of his wife and their child, a baby that was only a week old. Martha Harrison absolutely melted at the sight of the baby girl.

"Aww, she's so cute!" she said.

"Congratulations," Dan replied.

While they were still busy going through their packages like little children, Dan opened up the small, wrapped box that had his name on it. The signature was in his mother's handwriting, and when he unwrapped it, it even smelled like home. He didn't want to make a big deal about what was inside, and would rather keep it to himself. His attention was distracted, however, when a suited man stepped in through the door. This man was obviously not from around the area, and since he approached Dan's entire squad, something was going to happen. He hoped that R&R wouldn't be canceled, but usually these short notices meant that they were.

"Gentlemen," the man said, then looked over at Martha. "And lady."

"Who're you?" asked Nichols.

"Which one of you around here is Lee?" he asked. "Daniel Lee?"

"Do I look Asian to you, man?" asked Benitez. "That's Danny over there."

Dan watched as the suited man made his way over to him, holding out a hand. Cautiously, Dan shook his hand and even offered him a seat at his table, which was a noticeable distance away from everyone else. They never made an issue of Dan's isolation, though, since they assumed it was because he had witnessed a little girl's head get blown to bits by rifle fire. No one brought it up.

"I'm Mr. Bronstein," said the man. "I represent a very powerful man from the Pentagon named Darian Alexander."

"Never heard of him," Dan blankly commented.

"Of course you haven't," Bronstein smiled. "Word around your superiors is that you're being recommended for promotion. Captain, is it?"

"Sergeant."

"Ah, Sergeant. Ever thought of being captain?"

Dan shook his head. "I'm a fighter, not a commander."

"I hear that you even work solo sometimes," he said. "Or at least with one other person. That's a little strange for a Marine Corps squad, isn't it?"

"I do what my superiors tell me."

"And why aren't you at home for Christmas?"

"So long as I serve," Dan said, "this dry hellhole is my home."

"I also understand that you have a very strong background of powerful moral conscience, though I hear that it has diminished these past few years."

Dan took a sip of his beer and cleared his throat. "If you're here for something, Mr. Bronstein, spit it out. Otherwise, I could give a shit less about this Darian Alexander."

Mr. Bronstein sat and watched Dan set down his beer bottle.

"…to put it frankly."

"Do you know why your squad has been operating so…" he paused to find the correct word, "_separately_…these past two years?"

"It has something to do with Mr. Alexander."

Bronstein nodded. "Yes. It does. You see…_circumstances_ allowed the crossing of our paths. You are here. Your squad is here, and you're really not so hot on the radar. You're not spec ops. You're not a Navy SEAL. You're anonymous."

"And how does it help me?"

"It helps you stop the operation in this very city," Bronstein told him. "Singlehandedly."

Dan reached for a cigarette, put it to his lips, and searched for his lighter. "Jihadists?"

"No. Businessmen," Bronstein said. "You see, they run a trafficking getup around these parts of town. Sells 'em to extremists."

"Trafficking what?"

"Women," he answered. "Anywhere between ten-to-twenty-something years of age. Virgins go for twice the price."

Dan lit his cigarette while Bronstein chuckled at his own little statement.

"And it _is_ in this town, naturally."

"Well," Dan exhaled. "That's too fucking bad. It doesn't really concern me that these men are making _sharmuta_ out of young women. So what if the extremists buy them? Less money for _them_."

"Aren't _you_ the bad man."

"I'm not a good person. So what? Sue me."

Bronstein chuckled again. "It's deeper than what you think, actually. You might find something worthwhile if you look into this."

There was a silent moment between them in which Dan read the expression on Bronstein's face, instantly realizing that Bronstein could care less for the women being trafficked and prostituted—if it was even true to start with.

"Obviously, there's something you're not telling me."

"Just think about it," Bronstein said, standing up. He handed Dan his card. "I'll be in touch. Merry Christmas, though I'm not so Christian."

Dan placed the card on the table, wondering just exactly what Bronstein's true agenda was, considering that there was a cryptic sense to his character. Shaking the businessman's words from his mind, he looked down at the package and unwrapped the rest of it, opening the box that smelled like home and noticing the lighter that his mother had sent him along with a signed card.

_It's difficult to say this, but I didn't want to bother you while you were out fighting. Your father died last month, just after you left for your third tour. He was killed in a robbery at the pharmacy. Please, come home soon._

* * *

_Your father died last month,_ as in, "I love you, and Merry Christmas. By the way, your father's dead." As if she didn't even want to tell him in the first place.

It's not like he ever really liked his father, but his father _was_ his father. Not even a word of 'I love you.'

Dan threw the moving face in the backseat and put the keys into the ignition, turning on the vehicle. It was late, but New York was still alive and breathing like some kind of towering leviathan floating above water, ready to devour any who came close. He drove the vehicle to a red light, heading towards the Andale Hotel which was located in Brooklyn, one of the many infested rat holes that he knew he was going to clean up. Perhaps, since he was going for bigger fish, he would have to rely on others to take down the petty street criminals. Dan understood that crime happened all the time, but eliminating the source—in this case, Delahunt—was the most important thing right now.

Reading the journal entries again yesterday brought more and more to his view, and revealed the troubled background behind what many called the "Manhattan Incident" in 1985. He wondered how a man like Veidt could live with murdering so many innocent people. Dan knew that a smart mind did not equal a strong mind, and that men who understood the evil in this world could still be corrupted by its temptation. John F. Kennedy once said, "Do not pray for easier lives. Pray to be stronger men." A man like Veidt could only take so much before his mind was pushed beyond the fringe of sanity. They were bad men who did bad things. But who were good men, then? Honestly, he still didn't care. Everyone was a false angel.

However, Kennedy also said, "Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate." Dan relied on individual judgment for negotiation, meaning that he would only negotiate if he knew that the enemy would be willing to do so. He hated self-righteous people who believed that there was always a peaceful way out, or some kind of explanation. Dan knew that sometimes there was no explanation. He knew it well. Sometimes a bully is just a bully, not some maladjusted child who has an unloving mother and a father who beats him. Bullies sometimes grow up, too, and become politicians and money-hungry owners of corporations. Sometimes it is exactly what it is, and nothing beyond its surface. Some people just need to die.

With Adrian Veidt, it was ego, self-righteousness, and principles. Like Walter, he did not compromise. And neither will Dan.

* * *

"Isn't it a bit late?"

Diana took a glance at Sandra Hollis's outfit with curiosity after they had exchanged hugs. "You're going out running?"

"No," her mother replied. "Your father and I had just come back from tennis. Wanted to try out that new indoor court that opened at the plaza last week. Come in! Don't want my daughter to freeze out there on Christmas Eve."

She stepped into the house of Sam and Sandra Hollis, or rather yet, Daniel Dreiberg and Laurel Juspeczyk. Her parents moved to Newland Heights just before she was born, after the Manhattan Incident had claimed so many lives. They had explained to her why their names were different when she was about twelve, and to this day, she could never see them as capable superheroes in their past. Her father, especially, told her about the glorious days of heroism, though her mother detested being a hero and always said how dark the era was. But now, things did not seem to be as frightening, though the city was boiling with unrest and social classes had a wide schism between them. The economy was drained, as well, which crippled many businesses and banks in the country. However, life in Newland Heights always seemed to be the vacation from reality, as it was always kept in perfect order for its wealthy residents. In 1990, when it had filled with plenty of residents, it was called the "Eastern Beverly Hills." Her parents retired early, though, and were living the comfortable life now while she was busy tearing her hair out about drugs and murderers and rapists.

Her father said that many men back then were good men. But where have they all gone?

"Are you planning to spend the night here?" Laurie asked.

Diana shook her head as she took off her coat. "No."

"You should," her mother recommended, heading over to the kitchen. "But since you're not here to waste time, what do you need?"

Then her mother gave her a suspicious look.

"It's not money, is it?"

"No."

"Did you get fired?"

"No."

"Are you pregnant?"

Diana shook her head at her mother's absurd guess. "No!"

"Then what is it?"

From her coat, she grabbed the small file that she had stuck the papers into and held it with hesitation. Laurie took a sip of water from her half-empty water bottle on the table and when Diana brought out the file, she immediately took interest.

"What's in that?"

She didn't answer. "Where's dad?"

"He just finished showering," Laurie said, noticing her daughter's seriousness.

Diana waited for her father after her mother had called him down, and was still figuring out how they would react to what she had to show them. More importantly, she wondered, if they were the heroes her father said they were, what kind of advice they would give her. This was her burden to bear now, though Lasko also shared that burden. What was he doing tonight, on Christmas Eve, anyway?

Before long, her father walked down the steps inside their very large home that had a gorgeous view of the city. He greeted her with a kiss to the cheek and a warm hug. Dan was always a careful, but happy man that always looked for the optimism in everything, though there was always this sort of hidden longing behind his eyes that lingered every once in awhile.

"What's the matter?" her father asked. "Have no one to spend Eve with?"

Her parents always picked on her like that, and she rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"No. I actually have something to show you."

"Well, _I'm_ curious," her father said. "So let's see it."

Diana walked over to the sitting area and her parents joined her. Silently, she waited for their undivided attention.

"There was a murder last night," she said in a drawn-out manner. "And a drug dealer named Kirilenko was killed."

"Yeah?" her mother asked. "And?"

"I was assigned to the crime scene, and took eyewitness accounts," she explained. "The only witness who saw the murderer explained it to the artist quite clearly."

"What did he look like?"

Diana pulled the drawing out from the folder, unfolded it, and held it in front of them.

"Like this."

* * *

"Ramon! Take out the trash, will ya?"

"Si, I'll do it."

It looked too involved. Too tight. All the workers seemed busy.

Still, Dan stepped forward towards the hotel and walked right in, moving past the bellhop and the check-in counter, keeping the face in his pocket and the coat looking clean. If he aroused one bit of suspiciousness, it could blow the entire thing for him. Now he just had to find security, and after he disabled the cameras and removed the recording, everything would fall into place. Realizing this, he knew he had to make a distraction, so he stepped back out and quickly went to his cab, grabbing a small hammer that he had snatched from the mechanics back at dispatch. But the hammer wouldn't do much, so he put it back and found what he needed in a cloth instead. The cloth would do fine, and a lighter would certainly help.

He paced into the parking lot and searched for the oldest vehicle, because the oldest vehicles didn't have their gas panels completely locked, or that they were loose and broken. He found a very old Ford truck waiting in between two more luxurious vehicles. Before opening the panel, he waited to see if there was anyone inside the car, or any of the nearby cars, for that matter. No, as he suspected. This would be quick and easy.

Dan opened the gas panel and dipped the cloth inside for easy lighting. Then, he lit the cloth and made a break for the door, moving quickly but inconspicuously. When he got near the entrance, he walked casually.

Boom.

There was terror and shock as everyone inside seemed to panic at the sound of an explosion from the parking lot. Security scrambled to the scene while Dan made his way towards the security office, where surveillance was bound to be.

Inside, there was no one. Perfect. He grabbed the security recordings and left.

Dan went into the elevator and punched the button for the listed top floor. There must be a special elevator somewhere that led to the penthouse and rooftop garden. He'd have to get there one way or another. The door opened and he stepped out into the hallway, looking for an entrance to the roof, preferably off to the side so he could sneak into the penthouse unseen. He could hear voices emerging from the hallway perpendicular, and tried to remain quiet.

"Come with me, ja. Delahunt is just in his office," said the German bodyguard who walked towards the secret elevator, accompanied by a beautiful woman dressed in a black dress. Funny. He remembered seeing that dress before.

"Thank you," was all she said, stepping into the elevator as soon as it opened.

It was her. What the hell was she doing here?

Dan wondered if the Basis was a jazz club that Delahunt actually owned (not that it would have surprised him, anyhow) because Alex seemed to enter the area without hesitation, as if she had been here before. What a whore, whoring herself out to Delahunt like that. It gave him more of an incentive to succeed tonight, though he had no idea why. When the elevator went up, the bodyguard stood in front of it, guarding it for the rest of the night. Dan looked at the ceiling and wondered if there was a way through the vents, but the bodyguard seemed incompetent because already he was playing with his cell phone, cursing in German, probably wishing that he had a chair to sit in.

When there's no side approach, then perhaps a frontal approach would work.

Approaching, he put on his face and stuck his hands into his pockets, and when he reached the guard, who looked like he had as much as fifty pounds over him, he quickly shot his arm out, aiming for the throat. Contact. The guard fell and immediately passed out. That was easier than he had thought, and there were no cameras in sight (not that it would matter).

Perhaps this was too easy.

Rorschach punched the button for the elevator and waited.

"Have to see Delahunt," he muttered, not knowing whether to himself or the guard. "Don't have appointment. Don't mind, do you?"

The guard was out cold.

"Thanks."

The door opened, and he entered, but not before dragging the guard's incapacitated body with him to hide it from his colleagues. When he arrived up to the penthouse, there would probably be cameras, but he had taken care of that already. The doors opened and he walked into the first floor. Delahunt would be on the second floor of the two-story penthouse.

To his luck, it was late, so Rorschach spotted no bodyguards around. Not like anyone was going to come here and assassinate Delahunt anyway. You'd have to be nuts to do that.

Actually, the office was on the first floor. He could hear muffled talking through the large door to his right. But, he had to take care of business first. Rorschach grabbed the bodyguard and dragged his unconscious body into the room where it could not be seen. However, the only place that he could hide the body would exclude a position for himself to hide in, so he placed the body on the couch and positioned it so that it wouldn't look like a maladjusted, disabled piece of mess. Reaching into the guard's jacket pocket, Rorschach found sunglasses and put them on him. He returned to the place to hide as the muffles grew louder, assuming that someone was emerging from the office. Probably Alex. If she wasn't whoring herself out tonight, then what was she doing here?

"—tomorrow," said the voice of a man as the door opened. "Sorry, hon, but the Basis ain't safe anymore."

"Okay, Mickey," Alex said. "See you."

Figures. Delahunt probably owned most of the city anyway. Well, won't be a problem anymore.

Alex walked by and delivered a glance towards the guard slouching on the couch and she paused for a second. Rorschach was getting impatient. Just leave already. After a few excruciatingly long seconds, she punched the elevator button and it opened, allowing her to leave. A good thing, too. She didn't need to be involved in all this.

Now was the time. Rorschach fixed his fedora and walked.

He stomped the door open and leapt up onto the man's desk before he could even react.

Delahunt didn't scream much, not after Rorschach shoved the combat blade into his throat. Oblivious eyes looked up at the shifting inks as Rorschach lifted the crime boss up from his desk chair and slammed him down onto the desk. Then, he cleared the desk of all things, the staplers, pens and pencils, pornographic magazines, cocaine bags, and all the personal makings of a scumbag. Rorschach quickly finished him off, shoving the blade right into the sternum, puncturing it and hitting the heart behind it. He pulled the blade back out and watched the false angel spread his wings to the side, dying. No chance to say a word. Nothing. That's what they deserve.

It was done. Time to leave.

* * *

Dan returned home very early in the morning, trying to quietly move his way up the stairs without alerting anyone who was sleeping, but it didn't really matter. Ms. Palmer was probably shooting up, as usual, and Alex most likely has not returned from her jazz club, which he assumed was closing down. Delahunt mentioned that she wouldn't be working there anymore. He probably already heard the news about Kirilenko. News traveled fast. But Rorschach was faster.

Perhaps now, destroying the rest of the parasitic criminal enterprises would prove much more difficult, along with a greater surge in police force. Figures. Only when it is too late will people take action. It was too late for Delahunt. Always has been.

He unlocked the door, but before entering, he leaned his head against it for a few seconds, letting his thoughts shift through. His mind seemed to spin after taking down Delahunt with the realization that there was no turning back from this path he had chosen. In the end, he would have no one to blame but himself. It is the nature of this chaotic universe.

"Back already?" asked a voice from down the hall nearby.

Dan turned his head to see Alex dressed in pajamas that he would only describe as child-like. At the moment, she didn't even look like a woman at all, but an innocent little girl who had woken up as her father arrived home from his late-night work shift.

"Thought your shift went until dawn."

He had no shift tonight.

"You usually arrive later."

He still didn't speak.

She sighed ever-so-softly, indicating her uneasiness. "I'm…I'm sorry about our little argument earlier."

Dan only grunted, opening the door and saw that no one had broken into his apartment.

"You don't speak much, do you?" she asked, stepping closer. It was somehow intruding, as he began to feel uneasy with her attitude. "I thought cabbies were good at socializing."

He finally turned to face her. "I don't get paid to socialize."

Her eyes widened for a second and she shortened the gap between them. Alex leaned in just slightly, making sure not to invade his personal space too much.

"What's that on your scarf?"

Dan looked down at his scarf, and noticed the red. He took off his scarf and tossed it into his apartment. "It's wine. Red wine."

"You were celebrating Christmas Eve at the office, weren't you?" she asked. His face was stoic.

"Did you?" he asked out of curiosity.

She gave a chuckle that seemed more like a scoff. "Where I work at, I don't have many real friends. I'm sure that you've got a lot of buddies you get drunk with every-so-often."

"I don't hang out with assholes," Dan said, entering his apartment.

She stepped closer, but didn't want to peek inside out of fear that she might make him angry.

"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked.

A few seconds later, Dan exited the apartment and shut his door, leaning against it with his arms crossed. She looked down in response to his admonishing stare that scolded her for even asking an absurd question like that.

"What are you doing up so late?" Dan asked.

"I don't know," she said, but Dan hardened his stare and she gulped before giving an honest answer. "I'm scared, I guess."

"Of what?"

"One of the guys who works for the club owner was killed," she said. "Everyone's afraid of what might happen next."

"You mean what'll inevitably happen," Dan assured.

"So, I'm just afraid. I've never done anything bad my entire life. I never killed anyone or sold drugs to anyone or nothing like that, and all of this stuff is really just weighing down on me right now. Because I'm associated with these people who do…those sorts of things. Everything feels so far away, yet so close at the same time."

He noticed that she hadn't lifted her head up yet. "Do you have any family?"

"Mother died in a car accident eight years ago," she said. "Father left before I was born. Brother was shot by gangsters back in '05. Used to have a lot of friends back in high school, but most of them have gone off to college. Family was poor, so here I am. I have a few friends, but I don't really trust them. You ever get that feeling?"

"All the time."

"Really?" she asked, looking up. "Anyone betray you?"

To that, Dan didn't answer, but she chuckled to herself.

"I shouldn't be asking that."

His face remained the same, still staring into her, studying her actions and reactions, analyzing the way she let out a breath or shot her glances around. Betrayal. What did _she_ know about betrayal? Once he saw the world for what it really was, he could not go back.

"Do you ever think of moving out one day?" she then asked.

"Yeah," Dan muttered. "Maybe. I don't know."

"These days," she said, "people are so focused on everything else that they've completely lost themselves. Know why people are so miserable? They hate themselves. That's why they hate others."

"It's in our nature to feel dominant," he said. "Hate has nothing to do with happiness. A man could still be happy because he hates."

"But that doesn't make him a good person."

"To you."

"And you?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It won't change your opinion, even if I agree or disagree."

"Then what makes a good person?" she asked.

"What do you think?"

"Maybe someone who can get over himself or herself."

"Then that's what makes a good person," he said.

"Do you agree?" she questioned. "And no dodging this time."

Dan shifted in place and gave her an honest expression. "I think a person should stick to what they believe in. What is right or wrong isn't important. They already know what is right and wrong."

"So if someone does something wrong, but they're sticking to their principles, then what do you do about it?"

"I do what I want to."

She let out a breath. "What about changing? Can't someone change?"

"I never said they couldn't."

"That's hypocritical."

He shrugged. "What _isn't_?"

"Changing something is harder than it sounds."

"If you want change, watch the news," Dan said with a yawn. "Good morning, Alex. I'm going to bed."

Before he left, he could hear her step behind him and he looked over his shoulder.

"Dan," she said.

He faced her once more.

"Merry Christmas."

He wished he was sorry, too, but it was too much for him to say.


	8. Life, Death, and Eggs

**This next chapter is, well, different. In technicality, this chapter is rated M, I think. Towards the end, there's quite a bit of swearing. My great regret when penning this chapter was that it did not forward the plot by much (at least at the length I had desired to go). This is what I'd call a "character" chapter, and it follows a central theme and sticks with it until the end. I hope you like what I've got this time, even though I aimed to focus on something a bit different.**

**Chapter 8: Life, Death, and Eggs**

_"This morning, Mickey Delahunt was found dead in his penthouse atop the Andale Hotel, stabbed in the neck and the heart. It is clear that this was a professional assassination, judging by the removal of the security recordings and the vehicle explosion in the parking lot that was merely used as a distraction._

_"Delahunt was a major figure in the city's low-class neighborhoods. Many often saw him as a kind man, gentle and helping to the poor and giving to the community. Last year, he donated thousands to the many charities for the poor in this city, and was planning to renovate the run-down areas this year._

_"Others, however, said that he was actually a gangster—a term that has not been used to describe any large figure in New York for years. Police are running an investigation on this murder, and we hope to fill you in on more details soon."_

The phones were ringing. Journalists. People who wanted information so they could tell everyone else about it. They would pay, too, and handsomely so, but she couldn't deal with them right now.

Last night her parents went on a tangent of hysteria after she showed them the drawing of Rorschach. The artist for the department even managed to get the inks on the face done correctly, not just plastered something quickly and showed it to everyone. She tried to make out the subtle meaning of the symmetric inks, but couldn't come up with anything. They just looked like inks.

But now, her biggest problem was wondering how to respond to the death of Delahunt, the city's biggest crime lord. This was the work of a vigilante, and with the quickness he was moving at, it frightened her. They couldn't have anticipated a direct attack right after Kirilenko's death. Everyone was caught sleeping. Too complacent. Even she was too complacent, and she kicked herself for being so. She couldn't give a crap about Delahunt, but dammit, there was a murderer on the loose, and she couldn't have that in this city. This was the opportunity for her to do her job correctly, and she was going to see it through.

It was too good of an opportunity, but she knew she couldn't spoil it.

Bad things happen when you spoil good things.

She didn't understand. What would drive a man to do these things?

"Based on the time the security footage was ejected," Lasko said, "this happened around midnight to one."

"We can scratch that rival gang theory now," she said, unable to look at the body as forensics studied the scene. "They'd have left a calling card, and would have paid off somebody."

"No gun, either."

"Rorschach doesn't need a gun," she told him.

"Guy disappeared over twenty years ago and all of a sudden he just shows up?" Lasko said, pacing around the room and playing with the framed pictures. "Doesn't make sense. It has to do with the Protectors somehow."

She sighed. "Can't believe someone would go for Delahunt. Just like that."

"That's too bad. He was a pretty nice asswipe," Lasko commented, readjusting a framed picture. "You know, the kind that picks up the most shit along the way."

"You don't sound worried," she said with a deadpan expression.

He turned around and shrugged, staring straight at the body. "No. If I grew up in suburbia, and was retarded, it might frighten me. But I didn't, so it _doesn't_."

"Wasn't your high school girlfriend from the suburbs?" she asked, taking off her latex gloves.

"Oh, _shut up_," he scoffed.

Diana groaned and tossed her gloves away while forensics scanned the scene. "Can't find a damn thing, other than the fact that it was a knife kill. The guy wore gloves. No gunshots, no nothing. In and out, just like that."

"Diana, my dear," he spoke in a sarcastic manner. "If you want to look for answers, you have to look in the right places. Or the right people."

"We're not going to go hurt anyone, are we?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"If you want to make a nice, juicy omelet," he said while she braced herself for the cliché, "you have to break a few eggs. In this case, we need a huge fucking omelet…so we might have to crack a _lot_ of eggs."

"You're joking."

"Rorschach is set on making the biggest omelet in the city. And he's going after the biggest eggs. We can't let him cook his breakfast."

"You sound like an idiot."

"Don't be so negative," he said, motioning for her to follow him. "Let's go. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy we can beat the shit out of. Or threaten. So you want to find this killer or not?"

"Fine. Let's go."

"Actually," Lasko then said. "I think consulting your little male buddy-friend Dan Lee would be beneficial to this professional investigation. We could start there, first."

"I'll make some calls later," she ensured. "It's Christmas, remember?"

"Ah, yes," he nodded. "That time of year with monumental consumer spending on crap like toys, chocolates, and eggnog. I absolutely hate eggnog."

As they walked out of the elevator, he began talking again. Lasko was quite chatty today, meaning that he was going to do something that would benefit the both of them. She just wondered whether she could last any longer without literally strangling him with her bare hands. He just wouldn't shut up.

"You know, in Abbeville, Louisiana, they have this celebration where they cook a five thousand egg omelet?"

"How does this relate to work?"

"Come on, this is interesting," Lasko assured. "It's a hell of a lot better than boring work crap."

She rolled her eyes as they made their way to the elevator. "No, I _didn't_ know that."

"Oh, good. At least you learned something new today."

"And I suppose Rorschach is hell bent on making a five thousand egg omelet, right? Were you going to say that next?" Diana shook her head.

Lasko laughed. "Pssh, no! That's stupid. Why would you say that? Rorschach might not even _like_ omelets."

She sighed while he laughed to himself as they entered the elevator. Somehow, this conversation seemed to be just another version of their many other conversations, with Lasko exercising his "brilliance" on a certain crime scene. It was going to be a long day, just like any day.

* * *

Didn't sleep long, he thought.

Dan woke up at 9:00 AM, about six hours from when he initially arrived home, and he even forgot to set an alarm. Today was Christmas, so there was no work. That meant that he'd have time to plan everything else, perhaps. He got out of bed and dropped to the ground, pumping out three reps of thirty pushups and four reps of forty sit-ups. Following his workout, he headed for the shower and when a quick ten minutes passed, he came out and dried off, brushing his teeth afterwards. He threw on a fresh pair of boxers and an undershirt and returned to the couch, completing his morning routine in forty minutes.

The first thing he did was seizing the television remote and turning on the TV just in time to hear the Protector response to Delahunt's death.

"We've done absolutely nothing else but patrolled the streets of this city," said the Gladiator, who was interviewed while on the job. "We will try the best we can to protect _every_ citizen."

What a load of crap. These 'heroes' have tried to be so politically correct that they've become a running gag, but with Rorschach on the streets criminals have a real face to fear now. It reminded him of something: he forgot to leave behind the signature, taking too much emphasis on stealth and anonymity. Either way, with the city witnessing one of its cancers destroyed overnight, perhaps some will take action. There was too much ignorance; too much apathy when New York was finally rebuilt. People no longer cared, and then they let the scum move in.

This is what happens when you spoil a good thing.

Knock knock. The door.

He went over to a drawer and pulled out a fresh pair of jeans, throwing them on before seeing who was at the door. When he peeked through the hole, it was Alex again, and she was dressed in normal clothes, like a normal person. The normal person who thought that people hated others because they hated themselves. He imagined that she'd tell him that the most beautiful thing in life was the opportunity for others to make themselves better, and that the tragedy was that most people didn't. It was what his girlfriend had told him one time. Back when he was still a pathetic little child who could barely fathom the depths of blackness that was the world.

Dan unlocked the door and opened it just slightly, still guarded of himself and his apartment.

"Yes?"

She stood there for a moment before she spoke, finding it difficult to respond to him for some reason.

"Hi."

It was a start. Their conversations so far seemed to flow like a beat up, 20-year-old truck that would not start until you were just about ready to give up.

"_Yes_?" Dan repeated, albeit with an annoyed tone.

She used to talk so easily, but perhaps his attitude had given her a cause for caution.

"I'm, uh," she cleared her throat. "I'm cooking breakfast over at my place. Benny's at his mother's house for Christmas, so I've got no _nearby_ friends to spend Christmas with."

And she had no family either.

"He's at his mother's?" was all Dan could ask.

"She has cancer."

His expression was unchanged. "What kind?"

Alex somewhat shrugged. "Don't know. It's not the kind you get better from."

Dan rolled his eyes just-so-slightly.

"So," she smiled, taking on a more upbeat attitude. "Breakfast? Yes? Come on, it's boring with no one around."

He opened up the door, but before leaving, he shut off his television. Alex got a peek at the very organized apartment that Dan inhabited, but noticed that the bed was quite messy. Maybe he had just gotten up. Or that he was having too many late shifts, but that was his job, right? She wasn't too convinced. Dan didn't seem like the person to be too passionate about his job. He returned and they went to her apartment down the hall. Hers was actually quite neat as well, and he was surprised that he didn't find at least one indication that she was like the kind she was involved with. Still, he didn't like it. In fact, there was something quite aggravating about it. It was very feminine, and even had a feminine aroma that aroused discomfort from the pit of his stomach. It subsided when they went into the kitchen, but the kitchen itself looked very feminine and unattractive. At least it was organized.

But it wasn't just the feminine looks that caused him to frown. Every detail, from the way the wet towels were hung to dry to the soap and scrub setup to the window curtains, seemed like there was so much life and heart and soul poured into it; a woman's touch passed down from mother to daughter or sister to sister. It was those aspects that he loathed, and it frustrated him to be reminded of what other people had that he didn't; the kind of intangible things that could only be taught by those who had come before. In his life, he had to gather his own wisdom through experience. No one was there to teach him. The question he always had concerning that matter was whether it was an admirable quality or not. Was a self-built foundation better than a foundation built with the help of loved ones?

"Have a seat," she grinned, gesturing towards the table next to the couch. The condition of the apartments was up to the owners, Dan realized, but also recognized that they shared a neatness that scum and lowlifes did not have.

He sat in a wooden chair that seemed like no one has sat in it for months. It appeared that she was always busy, as well. Either that or no one ever came by to visit.

She prepared the breakfast in the kitchen, but he didn't seem to peek over to see what she was cooking. Honestly, he didn't know why he agreed to come over. There was so much left to do, and other issues to be taken care of. There was a dominating silence between them, and the longer it went, the more uncomfortable it seemed. Alex worked faster, breaking eggs and putting toast in the toaster and preparing the fruit as if working faster would somehow speed up time so that the silence would end. Dan had not moved one bit since he sat, his face as unresponsive as a mannequin's.

"Did you watch the news?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.

"No."

Alex somewhat sighed, sinking into a more sentimental mood. "Mickey Delahunt is dead. The gang boss."

Dan still hadn't shifted. "It hadn't occurred to me."

To this, she giggled under her breath, though it felt like it was used to mask what she was feeling at the moment. "Of course it didn't. You didn't watch the news."

Though he couldn't see her face because she was preparing breakfast, his ear caught the slight sniffles that indicated something emotional.

"Don't cry for him," Dan said, his voice instantly having a stronger presence.

"I'm not," she denied gently. "But…he was a nice guy is all. Owned the club that I worked at. He had a family. Two kids. Loving father."

She spoke of it as if it were some kind of poem she was rehearsing.

"Men are defined by what they do, not who they are," he told her.

She looked over her shoulder and gave him a glance. "I wonder what goes through your head sometimes. But I think who a person is underneath is just as important as what they do."

"Then Mickey Delahunt was a gangster. He was an extortionist and a parasite who sucked the land dry, ending any who opposed him. A man obsessed with self-indulgence and impropriety. The lowest of the lowest."

"Oh?" Alex turned around with an eyebrow raised. She didn't seem to be irritated or threatened with his tone, but more amused and most surprisingly, understanding. "And what makes _you_ so far above them?"

"Never said I was," Dan replied.

She turned around and continued. "I half-expected the cops to catch up with him sooner or later."

"Cops don't do anything."

Alex laughed. "Then who is going to save the world, I wonder?"

Dan had a slight smirk/frown on his face, looking away and out the window. Cold outside. Much warmer in here. Exactly the way the world was and always will be. Alex turned around and brought him a plate full of breakfast. She placed hers at the other end of the table and sat across from him.

"Hope you like omelets."

He stared at it for a second, and a subtle frown came about him that prompted her to look at him uneasily.

"Don't like omelets?"

He shook his head. "Not as much as I used to."

"What does that mean?" she asked him. "You used to like omelets, then you don't like them anymore? I don't get that."

"It is what it is."

"Well, they taste _great_," she said with a wide grin. "My mom used to make them like this before she died. You can't _believe_ what you're missing out on."

With a piece of omelet on her fork, she took a large bite and chewed noticeably. Dan stared at her, his frown an indication of not disgust but peculiarity.

"Mmm," she moaned. "It's _so_ delicious. I bet you hate them because they taste so _good_, you can't resist."

She made strange faces while trying to provoke him into eating the omelet, and in doing so, he finally let out a subtle smirk, and she noticed it as if it wasn't supposed to be there, like noticing a crack in a strong, fortified dam holding back millions of gallons of water that could flood an entire city if it was let loose.

"Ha!" she exclaimed. "Finally, you're smiling!"

Dan looked away from her, trying to hide his amusement.

Then, he dug his fork into the breakfast and began to eat.

"Don't they taste great?" she asked.

He gave her a quick glance. "You don't need me to tell you that."

"You surprise me," she commented, taking a sip of her orange juice. "I didn't know you were capable of complimenting."

"Is that a compliment or a criticism?" he asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

She flashed a smile, but not just any dull smile. Hers was understanding and human and kind, the type that established some kind of grounding between them. There was a silence as the two ate their meals for the next moment.

"Do you ever pray anymore?" she asked all of a sudden. "Most forget what Christmas is all about. Birth of Christ, and all."

He set down his fork and gave her a pensive look. "Was never the religious type."

"Ah," she nodded. "My mom was a Catholic. So I was, too. Used to celebrate Christmas and Easter pretty well."

"Your point?" he asked, wondering if she had anything important to say, or if she was just trying to make small talk.

"Nothing," she said, looking down. "Just eating omelets got me thinking. Eggs. Easter. Birth, rebirth. You know. Celebrating life is fun, and eating omelets makes me think of that kind of stuff."

He shrugged and continued eating, nearly finished. "To each his own. Or her own."

Alex raised an eyebrow, surprised by his response. "Why? What's the reason for _your_—rather low—opinion of omelets?"

Dan scooped up the last bit of egg and ate it, finally placing his fork down and giving her a nod. She was still awaiting an answer, her head cocked just slightly, sitting in anticipation for his response. But he wouldn't.

"I have errands to run," he said rather coldly, causing her to blink in surprise. He didn't even thank her for breakfast.

And in that instant, he was gone.

* * *

He shoved his key into the keyhole and opened the door to his home. That's funny. Laurie must've forgotten to turn on the alarm.

She wouldn't be back for another half hour, since she was visiting her mother's grave and running a few more errands. It was five o'clock and it was snowing. And it was dark. The lights automatically turned on as the home system detected an entry, and Daniel Dreiberg took off his coat. As of late, his mind had been focused on things other than Christmas, specifically what his daughter had to show him last night.

Could it be real? If it's true, then why? Why would something like this happen? He knew Walter was dead. He died out in Karnak those many years ago. No one comes back from that. No one, save for Manhattan.

It had bothered him all night and morning and afternoon. If the news has discovered the same thing as the police, then word will spread across the city like wildfire. Or like a disease. Maybe it's what this city needed. Maybe. Ever since Karnak, he had doubted his own "schoolboy heroics" and swore to never take up the mask again. He swore to live normally, like a normal person with a normal job, normal needs, and normal relationships. Still, the superhero life had been exciting; he remembered flying inside Archie, an exciting thrill that he still missed to this very day. But he was too old, and was in no shape to don the suit anymore (he even wondered if he'd still fit in it).

He shrugged off the nostalgia. The world didn't need heroes. Whoever this new Rorschach was, Dan was sure that he understood this, otherwise he would not have taken such an extreme action against the crime underworld.

Dan could smell the turkey cooking in the kitchen. Surely, Laurie would be back to take care of the turkey, right? Even so, he wanted to check on it to see if it wasn't overcooking or anything. He headed down towards the kitchen, but not before noticing that the lights were on. No one else was supposed to be home. He heard some chewing noises, as well, so he remained low, deciding not to turn on the lights to this section of the house.

But, it was too late. The person sitting at the dining table in the kitchen looked over his shoulder, his mask rolled halfway up to the nose, chewing on what looked like a sandwich.

"Evening, Daniel," a raspy voice said.

The nostalgia that subsided a moment ago returned in an instant, and Daniel was as attentive as he had ever been.

"Helped myself to a sandwich," the man at the table said, munching. "Hope you don't mind."

Dan stepped forward, cautiously.

"Rorschach?" was all he could ask, his voice trembling to a whisper.

Rorschach continued to eat, and set the half-eaten sandwich down. "Turkey smelled good. But didn't want to ruin your holiday. Then again, celebrating at times like these is unacceptable."

"…thanks for your concern," Dan replied, slowly walking to the light switch and flipping on the lights. "And thanks for not breaking any of the door locks."

The vigilante stood up and turned around and fixed his black coat, facing Dan. "Reminds me. Reconnect alarm system when I'm gone. Wouldn't want scum to break in later."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He honestly had trouble believing that Rorschach was standing here, now, in the flesh. Dreiberg felt like sitting down, because his legs seemed to tremble and shake at the appearance of his old colleague. Even his breathing did not feel right. However, this man who stood in front of him was not Walter Kovacs. He did not have the hygienic habits of Walter Kovacs, nor was he even the same size. This man was just a bit taller, and his build was very athletic compared to Walter's thinner frame.

"Who are you?" Dan found himself asking. "Underneath the mask, I mean. You're the one who killed that Delahunt guy, I presume."

"Not important," Rorschach said, bringing the sandwich for another bite.

"Why are you here, then?"

The vigilante finished his sandwich and rolled the mask down. Annoyed, he rolled the mask back up again and took a sip of water before rolling it back.

"Came to warn you of cops. Might come interrogate old allies. Don't trust them," Rorschach told Dan.

Dan took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "Actually, uh, my daughter's a cop."

He didn't want to tell Rorschach, because he knew that he shouldn't trust him, but the gut feeling overrode what his mind told him to do.

Rorschach nodded. "I know. Saw picture. Diana Hollis?"

"Yeah."

"Thought she was a student at Veidt University. Seems outgoing, and liberal."

Dan put his glasses back on, the sense of distrust still irritating him. "She was actually undercover. How did you know about the student thing?"

"I get around," was all Rorschach told him. "Keep her safe. Wouldn't want her to stand in the crossfire."

"She's an adult now."

"Your choice," Rorschach shrugged.

There was also the irritating need to ask the one important question that had been on his mind the entire day.

"Why have you come back?"

Rorschach let out a grunt. "City dying of cancer with no cure. Junkies trudging up and down streets, starving and dilapidated, fed with heroin needles and crack cocaine. Gang bosses sucking blood from the land like parasitic leeches who get too fat and can't escape the body they've squeezed themselves into. Self-satisfied, aristocratic elitists denying the hideous, bleeding truth like an opposing religion. Spinning out of control. Need to take extreme measures."

"And you need my help, don't you?"

"Don't know what I'll need you for yet," Rorschach simply put. "But, just came to warn you today. Brought you Christmas present."

Did he know about Adrian? Dan was afraid to ask.

Before he could, however, Rorschach brought out the journal. It was the journal that Walter had always written in, and to be honest, Dan had almost completely forgotten about it, only remembering that they had dropped it off at the New Frontiersman. He gripped the fine leather cover of the old journal and accepted it bewilderedly.

Yes, this man did know of Adrian.

"Must go now," Rorschach said. "Be seeing you."

"What happened to this city, Rorschach?"

"Too many good things," he answered, referring to what Veidt had done with the social classes. "No balance. Became spoiled. Rotten. Perfect for breeding maggots."

"And what will happen now? The big fish is dead." Dan asked.

Rorschach had already started for the sliding door to the backyard. He looked over his shoulder. "Other fish will fry. Time to bring back New York."

He left before Dan could ask him about Adrian.

* * *

"What did you guys name her?" Dan asked.

Benitez shrugged as they moved past the delivery truck and a small group of kids looking to play soccer in some dank alleyway. "Don't know, man."

"I hope it's Danielle."

His friend chuckled. "That would be amusing, wouldn't it?"

"What's so amusing about that? I think it's a nice name."

They walked into a café but seated themselves in the outside area, waiting for the waitress to walk over. She was a young American woman. Probably moved with her parents who worked for the oil companies. Her eyes seemed to tire of the Middle East, but she did her job nonetheless, pouring them some hot coffee. Dan actually enjoyed the taste of Middle Eastern coffee, though he wasn't sure he preferred it over the stuff at home.

"What can I get you boys today?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry," Benitez said, looking over to his colleague. "You getting something?"

"I'll take a ham omelet," Dan told her. "Please."

"Right away, hon," she winked at him.

She left the table and Benitez gave Dan a glance, as if ordering food here was a crime.

"An omelet?"

"I'm hungry," Dan said, taking out a cigarette. "Plus, I freakin' love omelets."

His fellow soldier smirked. "Little taste of home, huh?"

Dan didn't have much of a reaction. "Uh huh."

"Where are you gonna go after you're done with service here?" Benitez asked.

He shrugged. "Probably going to go back home. I don't know."

"I think you should join Special Forces," his fellow soldier recommended.

Dan shook his head at the ridiculous idea. What would he do in Special Forces anyway? Become a Green Beret? Serve in a variety of hellhole Third World countries? At least he'd have something to shoot, though he could care less for the world's problems.

"Nah."

"You're pretty much the best marksman on our team, man. You're marks are pretty damn high," Benitez said. "I think they might recommend you for it."

"Why should I serve some fat jackoff behind a cheap desk who barks orders at me while eating his chunky ass away?" Dan then asked. "I mean, I like the military, but I don't like it _that_ much.

The waitress came back with Dan's omelet and a small carton of orange juice. "On the house," she said with a wide grin. It must have been forever since she had seen westerners besides her parents. Why wasn't she in college? Was she part of some kind of relief foundation or something?

"Anything else I can get you?"

Dan shook his head. "Thank you, I'm fine."

"Okay," she nodded. "Anything else, you just call me, alright?"

"Sure thing."

She walked off to service others who were there, but the way she treated him was special, though he was unreceptive. Benitez noticed this, too, and even had the boldness to bring it up.

"I think she's checking you out, bro," he said.

Dan poked at his omelet, but before taking a bite, he looked up to face his friend with his own expression of dismissal. "No thanks."

"Come on, man, look at her," Benitez said. "Your girlfriend doesn't even call your or anything, man. I don't even think she cares about you."

"Yeah, I know. We talked about this already," he replied in a hasty manner, becoming uneasy.

She looked over again, and smiled just slightly. Where Benitez saw a beautiful young lady, he saw something younger. More innocent. Dead.

"See! Look at that!"

"I get your point. Can I just eat my omelet now?" he asked, though it sounded more like a demand. "She looks like a kid, anyway."

"Nah. I don't think so. She's perfect, man."

Then Dan snapped, and he audibly placed his fork on the table. "What do _you_ fucking know about it?"

It was so sudden and sharp that Benitez had to look at his friend to make sure he was still himself. "Excuse me?"

"You," Dan said. "Going on about girls and all that. You don't know what the hell you're talking about, you piece of shit. You have a baby girl, for Christ's sake."

"Woah, man," his colleague sat backwards. "What the hell's the matter with you? I'm just saying, is all."

"Yeah, well, you 'say' too much. Sometimes, you should just shut your goddamn mouth and learn to think before you speak. And think with your brain, not your dick all the fucking time."

"What the hell are you even talking about here?" Benitez asked, bewildered by Dan's sudden aggression. "I don't know what we're arguing about."

"No. Fuck you," Dan said, standing up. "I just lost my fucking appetite."

He departed from the café alone and aggravated, leaving Benitez and the attractive, but young waitress behind. Dan couldn't bear to look her in the face, those innocent eyes still screaming back at him what he had failed to do in the past. They scolded him, and sometimes even tortured him for nights on end, waking him up in his sleep. Sometimes, he'd wake up cold, only to find out that nothing was there, except him.

He reached into his pocket and found Mr. Bronstein's card, pulling it out and discovering only one number written down. If he did agree to investigate this smuggling ring, then what would it hold for him? Would it draw him to greater heights in the military? There were so many questions, but where his mind could go in different directions, his body could only travel in one. So he made up his mind, ready to contact Bronstein as soon as he could.

Dan paused for a second and saw the little girl's face before it splattered into a million chunks, and he frowned.

All of a sudden, he really hated omelets.


	9. Blink

**Well, it's been another long while since I last submitted a chapter. It's mostly because I've been busy with schoolwork and I just haven't had time to step into the story to continue. But, recently, I had more time on my hands, so I have completed another chapter for you guys. Lucky for you, this one is quite lengthy, so enjoy.**

**By the way, thanks for all the reviews. Really. They carry me through the worst times when I can't seem to get my chapters completed. Enjoy the chapter.**

**Chapter 9: Blink**

"So did you always want to become a cop?" Lasko asked as they continued down the road.

She sipped her coffee nonchalantly and put it back into the cup holder. "Have I answered this question before?"

"I don't recall asking it."

"No."

He shrugged. "No, huh? So what did you want to be?"

Diana Hollis stopped at the red light, staring at the neighborhood surrounding her, the trash and grime and filth caked all over the streets, making it look like some kind of warzone or a kind of post-apocalyptic cemetery. She was hesitant to answer, half-expecting some snappy remark that would ridicule her or something, but she figured that it wouldn't really matter.

She remembered the first day that she was partnered with Lasko. He was a veteran, no doubt, but no one wanted to work with him. This was only a few years ago, and since then, she still hasn't figured out why no one worked with him. It couldn't have been the big mouth. There are plenty out there who talk a lot, and people get along with them just fine. Was there something else she was not aware of? Over time, she began seeing it as her own misjudgments. Maybe Lasko just liked being alone.

"A hero. I wanted to be a hero."

Lasko reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. Probably twenties and hundreds. "That's honorable, I guess. Naïve, but honorable."

She slightly cocked her head at his response. Usually, he'd say something a bit more insulting or playfully mocking, but this time he was quite level with her.

"Never thought you'd be here right now, did you?" he asked her. "Here, sitting next to a guy like me in a city where the problems keep stacking until you're so deep in shit that you can't even take a second to breathe?"

Diana glanced at him counting his bills. "No."

"But a cop _is_ a hero, is he not?" Lasko asked.

"Law does not justify justice in the way we'd like to see it," was all she answered, her demeanor direct and concise.

"So do you," he cleared his throat, "like, think you're entitled to doing more?"

"You mean personal justice."

"Street justice."

"I'm not so sure. Corruption is rampant."

"Don't suppose you're referring to me?" he smirked.

She slightly frowned. "And what did _you_ always want to be?"

"Rich," he said with a shark's grin.

She looked away. "Justice is nothing if it does not have a logical reason behind it."

Lasko let out a breath, seeming as though he were rolling his eyes, as well. "There are crackheads who murder nice old women for their jewelry. Deviants who rape little boys and girls coming home from school, walking because they don't have enough money to ride the bus. Youngsters who abuse the local nun just to see what it feels like. Young boys who kill Indian grocery store clerks for some sort of stupid ass gang initiation, believing that it makes them untouchable."

She sighed.

"Sometimes, you just want to kill them all," he said. "You just want to put everything away, one bullet at a time. In the end, who's really going to care? No one gives a shit about drug peddlers getting their faces blown to bits by the local schoolgirl who lost her mother to their product."

"People might agree with that but the law doesn't."

"The law doesn't have to. The jury does," he told her.

"So do the ends justify the means?"

There was a slight pause.

"Ask that again when you've lost something dear," he turned away. "Are you afraid of loss?"

It sounded rhetorical, so she decided not to answer, but instead asked another question.

"How far is too far?"

Lasko chuckled. "That's just it, isn't it?"

Diana continued down the road when the light turned green. Lasko still hadn't told her where they were exactly headed, or what they were exactly doing, for that matter. For most of her service as detective, she had driven people around like a chauffeur. It was frustrating, but it paid. She almost chuckled when the thought of Dan Lee came back around her mind. He drove people around for money, too. Then it occurred to her that she hadn't called him in days because she had been so caught up with this alleged Rorschach case. He wasn't the type to socialize much, so she would have to call him some time. If Lasko hadn't reminded her back at the Andale Hotel, she probably would have forgotten.

"Where are we going?" she suddenly inquired.

"A guy I know," Lasko said, putting his money away. "Just let me do the talking when we get there, alright? Don't worry about nothing."

How specific. For all she knew, Lasko could be having her drive off to help him move money around. Or buy drugs. Or something.

"Pull over, will you?" he said. "I'm gonna go get a snack."

"Are you serious?"

"Come on. I work much better on my own pace."

Diana begrudgingly agreed without uttering any further verbal responses and pulled over next to a 7-11. Lasko got out of the car, but she followed him, as well. It was one of those poor convenience stores, run by an Indian man wearing a turban, his smile as bright and exuberant as any innocent child's, but the exhausted eyes of a weary businessman.

"Ah, Mr. Lasko, I have that package you wanted," he spoke in a heavy accent.

The man tossed him a packaged wrapped in gift wrapping, and Lasko thanked the man with only a nod.

They went down to the snacks and Lasko scanned around, unsure of what to get.

"You think I should get the Lay's?" he asked her, pointing at the bag of potato chips.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't care. We should hurry."

"Take it easy," his voice said with a comforting tone. "I always get business done. So, what'll it be? The Lay's or the Sun Chips?"

Diana sighed. "The Lay's, then."

Lasko stuck out a tongue, disgusted by her choice. "Ugh. You have no class."

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes, of course it matters!" he told her. "Whichever one we choose will determine how the rest of our day will go."

"_Pick the Lay's_," she commanded. "We must go."

The door opened, along with the beeping sound that followed it. The Indian man's voice was indistinct, but she could tell something was different. Sounded like someone had asked for cigarettes. She looked over towards the cashier, but he was no longer there. The two men who had entered stood waiting, then there was some shuffling.

"Okay, sheesh. Don't have to be like that. Looks like our day will be much shittier. Thanks a lot."

In a quick moment, the clerk returned and began to yell, his voice accusatory and furious. Two black men began to retort, equaling the intensity. Lasko immediately looked over. He didn't seem concerned.

"Looks like our luck has set in," he said with a smirk.

Without fear, he walked to the cashier and tossed his bag of chips on the counter, looking right at the two black men, dressed in baggy clothes, and smiling at them. They stared right back, blind as to who they were dealing with. For the moment, everything else was set aside as the situation at hand clouded over all who were involved.

"What the hell do you want?" one of them asked Lasko.

"So what's happening here?" Lasko asked, pulling his jacket back to reveal the badge on his waist.

"They steal from me," the clerk said. "Yesterday."

"This bitch is lyin', man. I ain't steal shit," one of them said.

"Tell me what happened," he asked the clerk, reaching for his gun. Lasko pulled out his six-shot revolver and gripped it tightly, firmly establishing some sort of order here. "And don't you two try to bitch out and run. I'm very accurate with this thing."

"They come in and ask for cigarettes," the man said. "I don't have any, so I go to back to get some. I come back and ask them to pay. I open register and there no money. They stole money."

"Fuck you. I didn't steal shit."

Lasko cocked the hammer on his revolver. "You like talking, I'll give you a new hole to speak out of."

"How much did they steal?" Diana asked.

"Two-hundred dollar," said the clerk.

"Bullshit!" one of the black men barked.

Diana glanced between Lasko, the two men, and the store clerk. Lasko seemed too comfortable in this situation, almost as if he goes through these things on a daily basis. If she wasn't out doing something, she was always back at the office, doing some paperwork.

"Okay," Lasko nodded. "Hollis, take the clerk outside and help him file a full report on this thing. The paperwork is in the glove box."

"You serious?" she asked.

"Just do it."

Sighing, she nodded and gestured the clerk to follow her outside back to the car.

Inside, Lasko still had the gun pointed at the two men.

"Could you stop that shit, man?" the one in front of him asked. "That makes me nervous. And that Indian motherfucker is lying. I didn't take shit."

Lasko didn't answer. Instead, he held his menacing stare at them, seeing right past their wall of lies. He was used to hanging around thugs like them. They tried to intimidate you, lie to you, and use you to their advantage. That's how it was like growing up for him, anyway. He was taken advantage of many, many times, and often he didn't know how to fight back. There was no father to teach him how to stand up to bullies. So, instead, he did to them the only thing he knew what to do. That was how Lasko operated, and although it wasn't popular with the department, they could care less, because he produced results. That was what made him a veteran. It made him some friends, and eventually, it made him some enemies.

Lasko aimed the gun a bit closer to his face. "The fucking money. Now."

* * *

Delahunt is dead.

Yes, I know. I watch the news, too.

You're so used to being on the news, I imagined that you've completely forgotten why you're here.

Shut up. You're lucky he lets you do the easy work.

This is not easy work. _Your_ job is easy: it's just manual labor.

Not just. I have to exercise diplomacy, too, smart ass. Have you been watching him?

Yes.

How is he?

In and out as usual. Does his taxi gig every night like the workhorse that he is.

You sure you're watching him?

Closely.

And what about Alex? Has he fallen for her?

It would certainly make him more manageable in the long run. She's just as naïve as he thinks she is. But I'm positive he'll open up soon.

The same could be said about her.

Don't you have to be somewhere?

Yeah. Latin territory tonight. But I'm not doing anything, though. Sarah's going to be doing most of the work. You gonna wish me luck?

No. You won't need it.

Why, thank you.

* * *

Morris's cab had urine stains in it today. Pablo's had menstrual blood. Melanie didn't even do her shift yesterday; called in sick so she could go to the Giants game with a few of her friends. The usual stuff. However, it was a monumental surprise that the fat man Johnson was still pacing around the office pissed off at the low profits over the past week or two. Mostly because the workhorse just stopped working so hard and became just like everyone else.

Dan was out on his shift those few weeks, too. But he wasn't getting any money. When Johnson asked him, he politely told Johnson that maybe people didn't like sitting on their fat asses all day and perhaps preferred walking. The reply was so uncharacteristic that Johnson didn't even fire him, instead dismissing him to "do his job." It was a partial lie. But only because the truth was partial as well. Sometimes the people of New York preferred walking because it could be faster than cabs, and less expensive (in this case, not expensive at all). Sometimes they wanted cabs. Other times they didn't. Sometimes Dan was on duty. Most of the time he was not.

Now that Delahunt had been wiped off the map and he had warned Dreiberg of the consequences and aftermath of such an unusually easy takedown, he could focus on the smaller, more chaotic gangs that controlled the different neighborhoods in the city. Veidt would still have to wait. As important as retribution was, Dan ultimately cared more for the city's welfare than taking care of loose ends, which is why, tonight, he was going to investigate the strange Latin gang murders in the Bronx which were seemingly random and without reason. He concluded simply that these gangs were unorganized and savage, existing only to bring chaos and terror upon an already deprived city. But it was still strange enough.

It was 10 PM and the city growled with sounds of vehicles and rumbling subways and indistinct, faint voices that sometimes shrieked or yelled or cackled. That was always the signal. Rorschach's life soundtrack playing forever and endlessly.

Dan put on his fedora and started out for the exit to his apartment.

"Leaving again?" a voice inquired.

Alex was probably angry at his abrupt leaving this morning, but he had no intention to apologize, so if this were to become another argument, he was ready to end it just as quickly as he ended breakfast.

She was dressed like she had just returned from somewhere, or going somewhere, even. The short skirt that she wore showed off her sculpted, womanly legs and her top accentuated her classy curves. Most men would kill to have a date with this woman. But tonight, his date would be with the city.

"Don't get all fussed up," she said with a hand on her hip. "I won't get in your way."

He nodded and tipped his hat to her just slightly.

"But I _would_ like to know why you left this morning without telling me why."

"I did," he said. "I told you I had errands to run."

"Oh."

"You're not implying that I have to tell you everything about what I do or why I do things, do you?" he asked with a certain slickness to his voice.

"No," she replied almost defensively.

"Don't be so concerned. I won't get shot tonight, so you can bet you'll see my face again tomorrow."

There was a frown on her face. "Don't say things like that. You're lucky you have someone like me."

Dan somewhat scoffed. "You're lucky you have anyone."

His tone was caustic and rapid, but those words stung like a butterfly needle, especially since he had gone off on a tangent about her sweet remark. He could see it in her eyes that he had really hit a nerve, but even more so than their last little exchange in this hallway in which he successfully shooed her away so he could head out to take down Delahunt. Beyond the hurt, there was something strange behind her eyes, as if he could sense that something really wasn't right with what he had said, as it really put holes into her social armor. She was frail and naïve, he thought. And weak.

Before he could think for another second, she turned around and stomped her way back into her room, and Dan, without thinking, immediately followed her. Was it out of remorse that he was following her? Or was it that he didn't like how she ended the conversation by turning around like that? Either way, there was some irritation itching underneath his skin. Dan arrived at the door, but she slammed it right in his face with a hurtful sob.

The only sounds he could hear were the sniffles and whimpers behind the wooden barrier between them. Then Ms. Palmer emerged from her door across from them and told him to shut the hell up with all that goddamn noise, her kids were sleeping for Christ's sake. He gave her a glare, then after he realized what he had done, he slowly walked his way out the door, cursing himself for becoming involved with Alex in the first place. If he had just ended the conversation with 'Yes, you're right. I have no other neighbor like you. I am very lucky," it would be easier.

Dan exited the apartment building and arrived at his cab that he had picked up from the garage earlier, only to spot two thugs trying to steal his spare tire by breaking open the trunk lock. They couldn't see him just yet, but he slowly approached, slipping the moving face over his façade of flesh, a menacing grunt escaping his lungs.

They turned around, seeing the man in the mask put on the fedora, straightening out the brim as he eyed them, ready for a fight.

"What'chu doing here, bitch?" said one of them.

"Look at this punk-ass," the other one spoke. "Think he some kind of burglar or somethin'?"

"Nah, I think he wants a problem. We gotta show 'im who the boss is."

The other one became aggressive. "You want a fuckin' problem? You _found_ a fuckin' problem!"

Rorschach tightened his glove and cracked his neck as one of them pulled a switchblade. These two would be good practice.

Dates with the city were mostly boring, but sometimes she was kind to him.

* * *

"It's good to see you again, Sergeant Lee," Bronstein said, sitting comfortably in his office inside the base Dan was stationed at. "Have you considered my offer?"

"Let's cut the bullshit. What will I be doing, and how important is this mission? You seem like a businessman so I'll assume that the prostitution ring doesn't mean anything unless there's a profit involved."

"A businessman?" Bronstein chuckled, leaning in forward. "Is it because I spin a dreidel?"

Dan didn't respond.

"Bad joke," the man muttered with a cleared throat. "Anyway, yes, this mission has some importance attached to it. It will be somewhat of a trial before you're employed within our agency."

An agency? "Since when did I submit my resume?"

"Oh, there's no resume," Bronstein ensured. "Mr. Darian Alexander is a, uh, well…he's a very discreet man, and he demands agents with exemplary intuitive investigational skills, and on top of that skill with weapons and physical combat and of course, a strong sense of morally objective judgment."

"And you came to me because I fit the description."

He grinned and leaned back into his desk chair. "Exactly. You spent most of your first tour doing nothing, only stationed in Israel for about a year. There, you learned Israeli combat tactics taught by an old Special Forces guru. Second tour, you became much more involved with guns, and were stationed near most of the gun enthusiasts of your corps, am I right?"

"So far. I spent time around Somalia, helping the local coast guard defend against pirate invaders."

"This third tour, you're learning how to operate more independently of your superiors, a situation very, very rare for a Marine corps expendable like you. But after those few precious years of training, here you stand, a complete, underappreciated, underrated, unknown fighter. We could use someone of your talents."

Yes. They could _use_ someone like him. Use him in any way possible, then throw him away.

"On top of that, you're not culturally bound. Where were your parents from?"

"Both my parents were born in Southeastern Asia. Immigrated legally during 'Nam after my grandfather earned his stripes for the military."

"Do you speak…?"

"Any dialect of my culture? No," Dan answered straightforwardly without elaboration.

"Not bad. We'll call that a clean slate. You're a man with neither a cultural nor a social identity. This makes you a ghost, and nearly untraceable if you're good enough."

"So am I good, then?"

"Yes. There is no paperwork for you. No files that you hold or pictures of the operation you may have. Technically, you'll still be under the command of the USMC."

"I'm just going to sit on my ass until your call. Got it."

"You catch on quickly. You're just the muscle. We don't need to risk your life for anything else. Just go on about as normal, and when we call, you better be ready in the blink of an eye."

That's all it took for someone to die, anyway.

"And whatever you do, Lee, leave your emotions out of this. Think with your brain, not with your heart. It will be tempting to do things a certain way, but you must understand your mission, you understand? No matter what happens, trust your convictions and don't let the situation move you."

"I understand."

* * *

"You mind excusing me with the boys here for a minute?" asked Lasko at the bar.

Diana nodded with a sigh.

No real results. All day, and nothing groundbreaking. It was night now, and though she was frustrated, Lasko seemed to be taking things easy. Most of what he did today was talk to people he apparently knew, asking them to return favors or something of the like. It could even be said that he didn't even give a crap about this Rorschach case, or the potential damages that chaos could unleash on the city.

Her frustration seethed under her skin. These lowlife thugs probably saw it as moving up in the criminal fraternity; as a promotion, a gift to them. But her father had warned her about Rorschach the night she showed him the artist's sketch. Rorschach was not a man to be stopped; in fact, he wasn't much of a man at all. He was more like an unwavering, relentless force of the night, stalking its prey with precision. The more she noted Lasko's behavior as of recent, along with the people around him, it seemed like everyone else was getting along much better now. Yet there was a very high jump in crime today, with already quite a few gang executions here in the Bronx and more murders in Brooklyn. No one seemed to notice or care. No one cared except her.

And maybe even Rorschach.

"What's goin' on?" Lasko greeted one of the other detectives. Each of them seemed dirtier than the next. Untrustworthy to anyone honest.

She turned back and sat at the bar while Lasko and his buddies went and sat at a table nearby.

"What'll it be, hon?" asked the bartender.

"Heineken," she muttered. A drink should cheer her up, at least.

The bartender nodded and poured her a fresh one. As the alcohol hit her body, that refreshing feeling overcame her, and suddenly, she came to terms with herself and decided that she'd do more tomorrow. There was no use groaning about time wasted today. There would be more time.

"Heard you had a _fun_ time in Jersey."

She didn't turn around, but could hear their voices over the soft music.

"I mean, it was one time," Lasko replied. "One time."

One of the others scoffed. "That's all it takes, brother. Vallon ain't going to cover you this time, 'cause it happened in a different city, with different animals in different cages."

"I'm getting the money to pay them back, now."

"How much time?"

"A few days."

"And how much?"

"Enough."

A chuckle. "I guess it could be worse. It was fun having you around as a detective, man. I'll say my premature goodbyes."

Lasko didn't reply. After awhile, the man let out a haughty laugh, believing that his joke was quite hilarious.

"Just joking with you, Jackie, don't get your panties up in a bunch."

Fuck it. She wasn't going to listen to any more of this. She was going to do something about tonight, with the time given to her. Diana didn't take another sip, instead leaving her beer partially finished and stepping out the door, leaving Lasko behind. Immediately, she unlocked her car and started up the ignition, and right as she turned it on, the radio scratched with communication.

"Hollis and Lasko, are you there?" asked a voice.

Diana picked up the radio. "This is Detective Hollis. What is it?"

"There's been a reported crime over on 1143 New Upton Street. You'll meet two night officers there inspecting the scene."

"Coming right away."

The door to the passenger's side suddenly opened.

"Hi."

Lasko smirked, but she had no time for him.

"So, could I come along?"

"This isn't a job for thugs who spend time screwing themselves over in Jersey," she said to him with a glare.

Lasko stepped in and buckled his seat belt. "Well, good, because I'm a detective who screws himself over in New York."

They sat in the car for a noticeable few seconds before he broke the silence.

"Come on. What's on your mind? Taking a bit of interest in the things that I do? You shouldn't worry. It's not that big of a problem—"

"No, it _becomes_ a problem when we are on the job," she snapped at him.

"I'm only human, Diana," he told her. "I don't mean to screw up your shit or anything. So, I'm sorry. Could we get moving?"

She rested her head on the top of the steering wheel, letting out an aggravated sigh.

"I can't believe I even put up with you sometimes."

Lasko grinned. "Hey. It's me. I can be a lot to handle."

Diana groaned.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" he said, leaning over to her. "I'll make it up to you some time. I promise. It's just that a lot of things are happening right now, and my priorities are out of order. I was out of line."

One excellent trait of Lasko's was that he could sound very honest. At times, he was a lying snake, but most of the time, he was just honest, and it killed her to realize so. And now, his voice was radiating sorrow and sincerity, so she gathered the little patience and sympathy she had left and lifted her head up and shifted to drive without replying.

* * *

The Bronx territory was mostly Latino. Before the whole incident back in '85, it was ruled by the Incas, a very organized Latino mafia that spread like wildfire since its inception in the early '70s. Now it was dominated by El Chicos Diablo, another organized bunch who had only very few leaders to command. But, Rorschach knew that these men were nothing along the likes of Delahunt, who was a businessman first and a thug second. These men were gangsters for the sake of being gangsters. They liked to take what they wanted and exercise power over the powerless. Handling them would hopefully be easier. They were stupid and unorganized, which meant he could take out whoever he wanted, and very few would care. No unity meant that they were aimless sheep for the wolf to hunt.

Lately, there've been murders. And they weren't random. Someone was doing his job for him, and no one does that but him, and him alone. What's worse is that this person could very well be psychotic, a man (or woman) fed up with society who is striking back out of desperation. Of course, Dan had thought about his actions as of late, and he considered when he would stop murdering people. After he had done his job, he wondered if he would keep killing, or have the willpower to stop and settle down. But if he quit, what would become of Rorschach? Would Dan be so ready to give up all that a dying man had stood for? In his mind, he knew that he couldn't turn back anymore. There were problems after problems after problems, and only he would be the one to face them. Surely, there was no one out there to help him carry such a tiresome burden, was there?

_"So what is this thing about Jersey, anyway?" she asked as they approached the crime scene._

_"Don't worry about it," Lasko said._

_Ahead, there was yellow tape, and a small smudge of blood several feet from the area._

_"It won't cost me my life, would it?" she half-joked._

_Lasko let out a chuckle. "I certainly hope not."_

_"Seriously."_

_"No. You don't have to worry about yourself."_

_They neared the steps to the house of the neighborhood, approaching the steps up onto the porch. He was going to put his hands up on the rail, but there was blood there, too. His slight indifference stirring something curious within her._

_"And what about you?"_

_"Me?" he sighed, opening the door. He let her go in first, and as they were at their closest, he whispered. "I'm just waiting for what's coming."_

_Diana felt some of her breath draw away, and took a moment to regain herself._

_"So, you're in trouble, then."_

_"I never said that."_

_She turned around before engaging the forensics team. "But you are. Just look at your face."_

_"You mean my handsome looks get me in trouble?" he smirked. "I guess I can agree."_

_"You're not invincible, Jack," she said to him._

1143 New Upton Street. It was right at the edge of the boiling pot that was the Bronx, and an unusual place for crimes to start sprouting up. Rorschach mostly labeled these outskirt areas the 'Rotting Districts' because most of the people who lived at the edge of gang territory were mostly druggies and the homeless. But there were gang members here, nonetheless. Territory was still territory. The few muscle cars parked in the vicinity proved that something important was going on here, tonight.

Rorschach approached up the wooden steps very silently, though he was sure he wouldn't be heard due to the loud rap music blaring from the inside. Because he was only investigating and perhaps even staking out, he traveled light, not wearing his safety vest and his backup pistol, which reminded him how small the backup pistol was. It was perhaps small enough to make it deployable from the forearms up the wrist, putting it right into his grip. He had been using some of his time to design a mechanism that would serve him well.

He couldn't spot anything from the windows, though a few lights were on. Rorschach decided that he wouldn't kick in the door, and instead headed towards the fence leading to the backyard. Checking both directions, he nodded then grunted himself over the fence with ease, landing stealthily on the soft, uncut grass. Rorschach made his way down the side of the house, moving past a room with pornography on the television and hid behind the rusty-gray barbeque grill, scanning the area in front of him. Nothing. A few half-empty Coronas on a beverage table between two chaises longues. An ashtray on the same table.

He moved towards the ashtray and noticed something billowing into the air. Rorschach picked up the scent of marijuana roaches and slowly backed away. It had been here for awhile, perhaps a while too long. He edged towards the opened sliding door and peeked inside through the screening. Television is on. New York Giants playing. Eli Manning just passed a fifty-yard touchdown. No celebration? Rorschach's ink blots fluttered with inquiry and he reached for the screen door, which wouldn't budge. Why would they keep the screen door open on a December night, anyway? With little patience left, he pulled out his combat knife and slashed it across the screen, easily tearing a wide hole in which he made himself through.

_"Screen door cut?" Diana said._

_"Yeah," Lasko nodded. "No fingerprints, they said."_

_Diana took a quick scan of the area for anything sharp that might have been able to cut the door. She opened it and looked outside. Nothing._

_"This must have happened at a later time," she said. "None of this makes sense."_

_"It could have been two people," Lasko suggested. "Maybe one of them got hit."_

_She looked towards the front door as one of the forensics team stepped in and handed her a sample on top of a plastic dish. Diana leaned forward and took a smell. Cordite, left behind from gunfire. The forensics detective must have found it on the ground somehow._

_"Any shells?" she asked._

_The forensics detective shook her head. "Nope. Someone's obviously trying to cover up."_

_The night watchman who reported to the scene first entered in next. Lasko had just sent him asking for information around the neighborhood._

_"Anything?"_

_"No one heard anything," the cop replied._

_"Nothing? Nothing at all?" Lasko asked, somewhat irritated._

_"Nope."_

_Then who the hell would have called the cops? It was the question in her mind, but she had a feeling Lasko was thinking the same thing. They stood pondering for a moment as the cop left the building and continued his guarding of the household._

_"Either someone was watching from far away," Lasko said. "Or someone's screwing with us."_

_"One or the other."_

Rorschach made no attempt to turn down the music or the television, instead making his way over into the living room, where he met two dead corpses; one, a man sitting with his zipper untied and his genitals hanging free, and the other a woman, who had her top removed, probably about to give him what whores would give for twenty bucks. He had no time to rant about whores. What the hell happened here?

It was clean enough, and quick enough. Someone had taken the bullet shells after he or she had shot these two. Rorschach walked over to the man and scooted his tank top over just a bit to see the tattoo on his shoulder, the rough ink crossing each other in hellish ways, almost as hellish as the ink on his face that never crossed at all. The marking meant something. In his time transporting fares to this side of the town, Dan had come to know quite the number of gang signs and insignias. This was a lieutenant. Where was the general?

Rorschach turned around. Oh. There he was.

Chuk. Chuk.

A trap.

Grunting, Rorschach fell onto the ground. Subsonic suppressed rounds. Professional grade. How the hell did a general get his hands on that? Rorschach saw the silhouette that had shot him, and he noticed that the person, too, was wearing a long coat to disguise his appearance. Then, the coat rose up just a bit and a feminine leg came and crashed down on his abdomen, knocking his wind away.

"You are done now," droned a feminine voice, coated with a British accent. "We will help lift your burden."

A warning. She left before he could process her words, picking up the shell casings that she had used up. Rorschach grunted and realized that his wounds were only of the flesh. One grazing the side of his left leg and the other scraping right by his ribs. Either he was lucky or she was just very good with a pistol. He had forgotten about his previous thoughts as to where the general of the gang was, instead standing up and scrambling out to his cab hidden in the alleyway nearby.

Damn it. Why didn't he wear the vest this time?

_There was a spot of blood on the floor, too. She looked down at it, then peeked upwards towards the door. Diana squatted down to inspect it, but upon looking at it, she giggled to herself with a sardonic notion._

_"What?" Lasko asked._

_"We won't get anything here."_

Dan let out a groan. Rorschach muscled through the pain. It was Dan who was shot, not Rorschach. Dan was vulnerable.

While he tried to cross the empty streets, his left leg weakened just enough to break his stride and, losing balance, he fell onto the hard concrete. He tried to suppress the pain by biting down on his bottom lip, soldiering himself back up and marching to his car. The grazing was deeper than he had thought. He reached the taxi and tore a piece of his tank top off to wrap around his left arm as a temporary bandage. Hobbling to the trunk, he popped it open and reached for the one thing he thanked himself the entire time for bringing.

_"Goddamn it," Lasko shook his head._

_"What a bastard."_

Dan came back to the concrete where he fell and sprayed the ammonia all over the smudge of blood left over. He'd have to come back to the house and do the same thing. If he did it now, the blood cells would lyse before the cops get here, ruining any chance they've got to track him with.

* * *

"Case is closed," he muttered. "We have nothing. A 9mm subsonic cartridge? Nice. Very nice."

"_You_ could figure out who sold subsonics recently," Diana asked.

"Hey, I don't associate myself with those unlawful—"

"Stop that," she commanded him. "We need to get to the bottom of this. Something shitty just happened here and we need leads. Now, who do you know that sells firearms?"

Lasko sighed. "Some people. But I can't…see them."

"Why not?" she asked with an impatient tone.

"I just can't, alright?"

"I don't believe you."

"Fine, don't."

He wasn't going to budge, but she accepted it.

"I guess I was right about you, then."

Diana stood up and stepped out the door in frustration. Lasko was always in this for himself, wasn't he? The entire day, he had been running on his own agenda, and she let him do it. Well, lesson learned. It was the last time she was going to let someone waste her precious time. She reached for her cell phone when it vibrated in her pocket. It was her father. This was no time for talking. Maybe he had something to say about Rorschach. Maybe not. Nonetheless, she was busy, and she wanted to be alone.

"Johnson," he said.

She turned around. "What?"

"Johnson. A fat guy who runs a taxi company. Probably the same one that the guy you were monitoring worked for before you got transferred over to this case with me. He sells weapons and drugs via his taxi corporation."

Her attention had been clinched. "Go on."

"He sells his stuff to cops, too, who in turn sell it to the gangs who sell it to the people," he told her. "It's a vicious process. Johnson is just a pawn amongst pawns, but I think he will know."

She nodded. "Okay."

"But, see…he works for these guys that I owe money to," Lasko said. "I've got a deadline, but if I go anywhere near them, I'm a dead man, yeah? If they know that I've told you this, some guys from our own division will be at my neck. Understand?"

"Who do you owe money to?"

"It's political," he said. "I don't want to go into details. Not here."

"That explains the wasted day."

"Yes. Yes, it does."

"So, Johnson…" she nodded. "I'll think of something. If it involves Dan, I can probably get in that way. It might be weird, though. I haven't spoken to him in awhile."

Lasko then smiled, somewhat returning to his cocky self. "Good! That way, I won't have to do much."

"Let's go," she said with just a slight smile.

"I saw that," he grinned. She didn't answer.

They got back out to the car and noticed the forensics trying to salvage any blood that they can, but by now, the ammonia had destroyed the samples. It was useless. She watched the crime scene with some emptiness weighing her down. Tomorrow, this would be on the news. But would the city care?

"Wanna call that a night?" he asked, leaning on her car.

Yes. They must. In some twisted way, this could be exactly what the city needed to springboard into action; to make the defenseless have some defense and the weak to lose weakness.

"Yeah. I'm spent."

He seemed disappointed. "Oh. Alright. Drop me off at the station so I can pick up my car, then."

"No. I'd rather just leave you here," she said in a deadpan expression. "You've been a total headache all day."

"Yeah, but a good headache," he smirked. "At least your life isn't boring. Could you imagine if I were a boring partner?"

"Yes, I could. I think it could be a bit better than this," she muttered.

He rolled his eyes. "Ouch. Take it easy. Save your abuses when I actually do something worth abusing."

She laughed and unlocked the vehicle. "Sorry. How about coffee tomorrow?"

"Will you pick one up for me?" he asked. "Just joking. Yeah, sure. I'll meet you at the station then we can go."

Before she entered her car, she took one last look at the scene.

"What do you think will happen to the shot one who got away?"

"Maybe the suspect will die of his wounds," Lasko told her. "Maybe he'll suffer and suffer until he finds some dumpster to die in and the trash company will pick him up as they're moving diamonds for the Jews. Or maybe he'll get away. Maybe he'll get help and recover and find some sort of life calling. Maybe he'll help out his community little by little to help turn this city around and write a book approved by Oprah and be elected for presidency."

He let out a hearty laugh and got in the car.

* * *

Dan painfully made his way through the entrance, pushing the door cautiously so that he didn't leave any blood smears. He stumbled his way up the stairs and reached his floor. By now, he was becoming nauseous because he had lost a decent pint or two of blood. He had trouble remembering which door was his because the hallway seemed to stretch on for about a block. Dan stepped in limps. He had no idea what time it was, nor how long it took him to hide his cab somewhere safe for the night so no curious bystanders would get him in trouble.

Left. Left. Yep, that was it. I think this is the one.

He entered his door, but somehow, it wouldn't open. He tried yanking the knob a few more times. Oh, right. He reached into his pocket to find the keys. Now, which pocket was it? He checked all the pockets on his coat, then the pockets in his pants. And when he searched the last pocket, it had hit him. He left the keys in the car.

The reality of the wounds finally sank in and although he wasn't hurting enough to scream in pain, he was losing consciousness. Desperately, he banged on the door and hoped for something miraculous to happen, because he didn't have the strength to knock it down. Not that he could, anyway. These doors weren't cheaply made. He cursed Veidt Security for a second.

Then, as the moments began to bleed into each other and time slipped away, he hopelessly leaned against the door, waiting for something to happen.

The soft creaking of wood from behind the door caught his ear. One moment. Probably looked through the eyehole first. Locks disengaged. Knob turned. He stood up straight with his last bit of strength. The door swung open and he saw her, eyes no longer red, but melancholy. He was sorry, but he couldn't say it. She was right. She was right about him all along.

Rorschach took a few steps forward, causing her to back off. She seemed ready to call the cops. Perhaps even ready to defend herself. Silly girl. Rorschach blinked. But it wasn't he who shut his eyes. It was Dan. And blackness overtook him.


	10. Nadine

**This chapter took awhile because it is very long. It's more of a character chapter than the others, since our main character seems to be incapacitated for the moment. Unfortunately, there is only very little focus on Diana and Lasko here. The good news, however, is that it really dives into Dan's character, highlighted by the few important people he's been surrounded with (who are really the stars of the chapter in my opinion), and it's probably the only chapter so far where Dan is not completely cynical and pissed off.**

**There is also one new character introduced here (chapter title, duh) and though she won't be around long for the entire story, her influence on Dan is very important to his stability. So, enjoy, and I hope this one isn't too touchy-feely.**

**Chapter 10: Nadine**

It is March 2006.

"Yo, man," Benitez said, patting Dan's shoulder. "You were right. I went too far the other day, and I'm sorry."

Dan looked at Benitez after he had set down his things on the new bed he had just moved to, and gave a subtle grin. "It's fine. I understand."

"Didn't remember that you were…touchy about that kind of shit. I should have known better. I'm sorry."

Benitez remembers the little girl, too. In fact, they all do. It hung like a dark cloud over his unit, but he was thankful that they were more independent this time around rather than in large squads. It was infuriating at times, too, that people in the unit looked at him as though he were someone else. He _was_ someone else now. But what made it infuriating was that he was punished for something he had suffered, and things could never be the same again.

"It's not just that, man. Don't worry about it," Dan assured, getting ready to clean his carbine. "I've just been…pissed off lately. Couldn't make my dad's funeral. My mom is gone, now. Girlfriend won't send me letters anymore…"

"I'm listening," Benitez said in an assuring tone.

"I don't like to complain about my predicament much," he sighed, removing the pieces and looking down at him. "But I just feel so frustrated. _All the time_. Sometimes I just want to do…_something_, you know? I just want to do something…really, really dangerous. I swear to God sometimes I'm just on the brink of frenzy, you know?"

Benitez shook his head as Dan sighed. "No, man. I don't."

"It's hard to understand. I don't expect you to," Dan replied.

His comrade smiled with a nod. "Alright, man. We only have a few weeks left anyway, then we're off R&R."

"And hopefully out of this hellhole."

"Hopefully. Wanna catch dinner tonight with the rest of the guys? Then hit the club?"

Dan, for some reason, had somewhat brightened up when he heard about it. "Yeah. That'd be nice. Getting sick of all these protein bars, anyway."

Benitez only nodded, which cause some sort of irritation inside of him. He hated silences, but he was used to them.

"A man who travels into the abyss can find the most interesting things about himself. In the darkness, he finds that he can do things he never imagined he could do. It's the ones who don't get lost that stay alive."

To hear these words at the time of his mother's death left him with a refreshed state of comfort. Dan turned to face Benitez, but his comrade was already at the door of the tent, the words burning right into his head, almost as if it wasn't his fellow soldier who said it. Benitez took a deep breath and turned to face him one more time before leaving.

"Friends, Danny," Benitez said. "Friends keep you alive."

* * *

Awake. His eyes shot open, but in reality it was rather slow. He tried to lift his head, but there was no strength within him left to do so. In fact, most of his body felt numb and heavy and lifeless. It took a moment before Dan realized that he was undressed to his boxers and that his face was no longer on. A warm blanket was thrown over him to shield him from the cold of last night. It was an even longer moment before he realized what had happened to him, though he couldn't remember how he got here. He had been shot. A woman. Her voice was coated with a British accent. Silenced pistol.

Before he could meditate on what happened, his senses hit him hard. He picked up a faint, fresh aroma that emanated from somewhere in the room; a kind of feminine scent that made him feel withdrawn. Usually it aggravated him, but since he was so weak, he could only suffer the discomfort of such an atmosphere.

Then he realized that this wasn't his apartment. His muscles propped him up into a sitting position, though immediately, he felt the subtle sting of the wound on his left arm that ripped something awful right through the deltoid. It was heavily bandaged and cleaned. And stitched. Quite well, too.

"Don't get up," spoke a voice.

Dan had trouble speaking. His head actually felt like it was still lying down on the couch, and as he lifted himself up, it took him awhile to register everything correctly.

Alex came over to him and tried to lay him back down. Had he any strength, he would have resisted her touch, much like a wounded animal, beautiful and wild and feral. Except, he didn't. She put a hand on his chest and the other behind his neck, setting him back down and he submitted. Her warmth was quick to be sensed, and it made him uncomfortable.

"I gave you some antibiotics and a thousand milligrams of Vicodin, so I'm sure you're feeling the side effects right now. It was all I had," she told him, rolling the blanket back over him. "I cleaned your wounds, too. You lost a bit of blood."

He was listening, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her face, since he felt exposed and vulnerable to her will. More than that, he was concerned about what she'd think of him now, since she knew who he was and what he did with his time. Embarrassing.

"You should probably stay in bed for the rest of the day," she said with warmth. "Don't try to get up and move. You'll only hurt yourself."

But she never asked him. She didn't scold him like a frightened mother. She was warm and accepting and glad that he was alive.

"Go back to sleep," she smiled, putting a hand on his forehead. "I'll be around."

In his sleep, he rarely had extravagant vivid dreams, not since he was a child. They never consisted of fairies or giants or dinosaurs, nor were they so terribly imaginative that he could review it with a clear mind. No. His dreams were more like video files on a hard drive. They replayed scenes that he could remember, over and over again. The scenes, themselves were not important, since the only imagination that his mind allowed itself was to change the situation. It was the people in them that mattered.. He dreamt of the little girl many times, and in every one of those dreams, she died. Often, it was a reminder to him why he could not have what he desired the most, and why he would never have it. He also had dreams of Benitez back when they did their last tour in the Middle East. In those dreams, Benitez always seemed to be a point of regret for him, even though he should never regret anything; that justice was justice and simplicity was more effective than complexity.

But now, his current dream was of someone very important. Someone he shared only a few precious hours with; a beacon in the abyss that he trudged through. And she was very beautiful indeed, but he could not remember her completely. He wondered why we punished ourselves so terribly for things we were not responsible for, and why our minds are so compelled to fix those irrevocable errors.

People often said that Rorschach never cared, and that he was just a criminal amongst criminals who satisfied his lust by pounding down men who would much rather hurt innocents. But that wasn't true. When Dan read the journal, he understood. Rorschach promised that when their sex and murder foamed up about their waists, they'd shout for help, and that he'd deny them salvation.

But he never did that.

In the end, Dan understood that Rorschach, no matter how maladjusted people may have believed him to be, was the only one who cared. He was the only one to make a stand to save them; to give them their salvation; to give them redemption. Walter, though, was a man who had already been chest-deep into the abyss, swallowed up within its punishing depths until he became the abyss himself.

Dan's only question, now, was if he would have the strength to stand up and suffer for those who deserve redemption. And this woman he dreamed of, no matter what her predicament, no matter what her vices were, was worth saving. And Alex, despite her involvement with the city's enemies, was perhaps worth saving, too. In the face of death, Dan realized that they were worth the endeavor. So, no more child's games. There had to be a purpose now.

* * *

So, Sarah gave him a little warning, huh?

Yeah. He show up yet?

He returned about half an hour after she shot him. He's in decent shape, but it looks like he's hurting quite a bit.

You sound compassionate.

No. It's just an observation. Pity. Pity is more like it.

He killed—

I know. I don't forget things like that.

Good. You better not. He's just an animal like the rest of them, a dog without a leash.

How much longer before it's over?

We still need to take care of the Russians, who are already weak and crippled, then we have to get rid of the Chinese, then the Irish.

Lucky you have two extra sets of hands to deal with each of them.

No. I have three.

Shut up. I'm not doing this just because I'm ordered to. I want him to pay for what he's done.

Remember why you have to be careful. He's smart. Strong. If he starts getting help, I want you to tell me so we can get rid of them.

Don't worry. He's going nowhere. He's fallen right into my crosshair, which could make the ends perfect if things go right. Do you honestly know if we'll be alright?

Everything will go according to the plan. The rest of the city will follow suit, then we'll be done, off to the Bahamas or some shit like that.

Guess you'll be fine after all.

Yes, I will be. Look, I have to get into uniform. Bye.

Bye.

* * *

There had been no call from Bronstein since their meeting in January; Dan felt like he was being left out. Maybe they found a better tool to do their bidding. There has been no information about any prostitution ring, either. They had been keeping him at arm's length.

"I hear back home it's still pretty shitty," said Duane Nichols. "I mean, everyone's getting tired of this phase. It's a long phase, isn't it?"

"They raised taxes back home," Benitez said. "My wife had to give up almost half her paycheck because she make, like, eighty grand a year."

Dan turned to his comrade. "What does she do?"

"Yeah, landscaping?" Duane said.

There was a light chuckle at the table.

"Fuck you," Benitez shook his head. "No, she's a clinical nurse."

"Seventy-fifth percentile?" asked Dan.

"Yeah. You got a job?"

He shrugged.

Benitez imitated Dan's shrug. "So what does 'this' mean?"

"I got nothing," he replied.

Duane looked at him while they sat at the table of the Westernized club that played American pop music that was obviously from a year or two ago but nonetheless popular here. In the background, a handsome Arabic bartender dressed in Western clothing served a few more American troops their liquor. There were plenty of women dancing away on the stage, entertaining the rest of the troops on R&R. During R&R, no one expected to have experiences as defining as in the battlefield. R&R was when soldiers could be people, and yet, Dan felt like he was slipping further away from humanity all the time. Dan and Benitez remained silent, as though both of them had known the reason why.

"What about your girl?" Duane asked him.

There was no answer. Benitez neither looked at Dan nor Duane, instead leaving his eyes towards the ground. Dan didn't answer, taking his beer and gulping down the rest of it. Duane suddenly realized where he had trespassed and nodded in acceptance.

His girlfriend had not sent him any letters since...

He couldn't remember. Sometimes the days seemed to bleed into each other.

She probably still remembered him, though, he assumed, and was probably too busy. She had attended Adrian Veidt University for Medical school, and it was probably one of the most intense professional schools, constantly being in competition with UCLA as having the top public (and affordable) medical school in the nation. Yes. She was busy. But couldn't she have sent letters?

"Whatever," Dan said with a scowl. He stood up and sipped the last of his beer. "I'm going to go take a leak."

He placed the bottle on the table and turned around, stepping past one of the beautiful waitresses who seemed to have too much makeup on. Dan headed towards the men's bathroom door across the room, trying to keep his mind off his girlfriend back home. Upon reaching the door, which was next to the women's bathroom and a door that probably led to the back of the club, he bypassed a man who sported a dark suit and aviator sunglasses. Not the local type, obviously. Dan sighed and entered the door, shutting himself away from the loud music and women and alcohol.

After finishing his leak, he went to wash his hands at the rather dirty sink and threw water in his face, wetting the collar of his uniform at the same time. He took a breath with his eyes closed.

In fact, no one had contacted him in awhile. He was alone and isolated and incomplete, the same way it used to be when he was a child. It was a haunting thought to him that he was getting used to being out here, even though home was the only place he wanted to be. But would they accept him again? No. They were all gone. His father, his mother, and now his girlfriend. Dan found it ironic that though he was the one placed right in the middle of the crossfire, he was the only one left of his family circle. God had his jokes, but Dan wondered where the punch line was.

His eyes began to water. He hung his head low and began to sob.

Before he could let himself go, he heard noises coming out of the vent above him. A woman moaning. Heavy breathing. Dan looked back up and listened a bit longer before putting his foot up on the sink to climb up towards the vent. A man and a woman in a private room together. It was obviously from the door to the back, and not the women's bathroom.

Immediately, Dan headed for the door and peeked out to see if anyone was watching him or if anyone was emerging from the backdoor. Luckily, the three doors were in a blind spot from anyone seated at the tables and he entered the door that led to a short hallway in the back. Dan followed until the hallway led to a perpendicular corridor. The exits were at each end.

The doors in front of him that were evenly spaced from each other probably served as peep show booths for sexually deprived American soldiers. He faced the right end of the hallway and quietly stepped down towards the direction he assumed the sound was coming from. The doors to the left were different. Women probably whored themselves out here. Dan kept moving until he heard the sex noises again, both of them howling like uncouth animals behind the door. He reached for the knob and slowly tried to turn, but it was locked.

Frowning, he turned, then, to the supposed peep show booths and reached for the one right across from the door he just tried. Slowly, he turned the knob and the door opened into a small dark room with a glass wall right across from the door. A man dressed in an expensive suit was seated in a comfortable chair in front him, facing the glass wall. Dan stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

"I'm done wit' my drink," said the man without turning around, his voice weighed heavily with a Cockney accent. "No more, mate."

Dan played along and nodded. "Absolutely, sir."

He reached over to the small table beside the British man and picked up the empty champagne glass and napkin, but his attention was more focused towards what was happening behind the glass wall.

He spotted a woman dressed in scant lingerie, standing in the middle of the room, but she was not entertaining anyone. In fact, she was cuddled and afraid, with likely no idea of where she was, and though her body had matured like a woman's, she didn't seem a day over 18. Her eyes swelled with innocence. Over a small intercom emerged a voice.

"Bidding will start at $200,000."

The British man raised a hand, signaling to Dan. Apparently, he outstayed his welcome.

"Come on now, Yank, this ain't a goddamn peep show. Get out."

Dan nodded. "Yes, sir."

He turned around and left with one more look at the woman up for auction, a fiery glint in his tearless eyes. Dan shut the door behind him and looked both corners. He heard a noise from the other side of the hallway and spotted the real waiter carrying a bottle of champagne out of the room. Dan looked to the door across from him, remembering that it was locked. Then, he took a left and went to the next room as fast as he could and decided not to knock. He twisted the knob, thanking luck that it was unlocked and went right inside the door, turned to look out, and shut it as softly and hastily as he could.

Dan took a breath and leaned his head against the door in relief.

Then he turned around. His jaw dropped and all the breath in his body escaped him at once.

She sat up on her bed and covered her scantily-clad body with the blanket, neither frightened nor surprised. Her beautifully-shaped lips formed a smile and she brushed her short blonde hair to the side, past her mesmerizing green eyes. Dan kept his back to the door to maximize the distance between them and took a second to take his breath back. He dropped the champagne glass that he was carrying.

"You are the next one?" she asked with a certain sincerity. "I've been waiting for you."

From the creases in the blanket alone, Dan could tell that she had a voluptuous body, almost perfect in every way, and perhaps too perfect to be real. She removed the blanket and stood up, revealing her half-dressed figure which would melt any male with a pair of eyes. Dan swallowed and then cleared his throat, trying not to look at her.

Then she looked discouraged, putting her head down with slight sadness in her body language.

"I understand that I am not so beautiful to look at sometimes," she said, much to his surprise. "If you want, I can direct you to another room."

She had to be joking.

"Please. Say something," she said.

Footsteps.

"_Something_," Dan whispered, his mind back into the moment at hand.

He turned around towards the door again and listened to what was happening on the other side. From what it seemed, the waiter had just entered the room a few good doors next to the one Dan had just been in, and it sounded like he was retrieving all of the champagne glasses. He'd have to use his time wisely before they find out something's wrong, since the Brit that Dan had taken the glass from would inform the waiter about said glass being taken. Then he'd be found, taken to a dark room, and probably be beaten to death with an aluminum bat. Or chainsawed. Or something. He shuddered to think about it.

The footsteps stopped.

"Should I show you another room with another woman waiting for you?" she asked him, her right hand caressing her left arm nervously. Her skin was well-tanned, as well, and yet she was so humble.

"No," he managed to say. He had to focus on getting out.

"Then," she looked up with starry eyes, "what shall we do?"

Her accent was American. She seemed like she had been here for a long time.

"What is this place?" Dan asked.

"This place?" she smiled. "It's a club."

He gave her a glare.

She looked down. "People are…_sold_…here. Girls."

It must have been the prostitution ring that Bronstein had informed him about. Dan was sitting right in the middle of it.

"And you're sold?"

"Not yet," she said. "But soon."

Sighing, Dan knew he had to take a moment to think. He ran a hand through his hair and walked towards the bed and plopped down onto it. The moment somewhat overwhelmed him in the sense that he had found the place (supposedly) that he was supposed to find. He'd have to leave and return some other time. But what about Bronstein? He couldn't even contact the man.

As he hung his head low, a sensation of fingers ran through his hair, sending a chill down his spine. She bent over and put her hands on his thighs, to which he immediately brushed her away and stood up facing her, only inches away from her face. Her eyes were so fiery with lust that now _he_ couldn't look at her in the eye.

"I have to get out of here," Dan then said.

"Is it because of me?"

He was surprised yet again.

"No. Of course not."

"Then," she looked away. "Could I…"

She seemed to have trouble saying what she had to say.

"What?"

"Could you give me some money?" she asked. "It's not for me. I just want to show my boss that I got some extra tips tonight."

The woman turned around to reach for a set of clothes, and revealed the scars on her back to him. Dan looked away in disgust.

"It's unpleasant. I know," she said. "But, please. I can't go back tonight without the money. If you can spare a few dollars, I will not forget you."

Giving her a stern expression, Dan reached for his back pocket. What a whore, working in such a degrading job. But then again, she could have probably been picked up a long time ago and was abused by her 'masters,' involved in a slavery-prostitution ring with old pedophiles and fat, oafish men with insatiable desires. She could be here against her will.

Then the thought crossed his mind. She could be useful to him.

"What is your name?" Dan asked, putting his wallet away.

She seemed saddened when he tucked his wallet back into his back pocket, but looked at his name tag. "Nadine. Nice to meet you, Sergeant Dan."

"You from the States, Nadine?"

"Lake Tahoe, California."

"When's the last time you were there?"

"Years ago," she said. "I was sixteen."

"How old are you now?"

"More than old enough."

She reached for a pair of jeans and slipped them on just after she put on a tank top, but halfway, she stopped and began taking her clothes off again as if something had just come to her realization.

"What are you doing?" Dan inquired.

"I'll have to work for that extra money," she said. "Because you decided not to give me any. I understand. I'll make the rest of it if there are any others tonight."

He put a hand on her shoulder in an awkward way, as if he had forgotten how to communicate with the opposite sex. "Put your clothes back on."

"Why?"

Then, he held her hand.

"You're coming with me."

* * *

He woke again into darkness and his head seemed clearer. Less weighed down by narcotics. He looked at the clock. 11:00 PM. Dan actually had the strength to sit up and put his feet on the floor, letting out a groan due to his weakness. Looking at his wounded arm, he realized that Alex had already applied a rather old-looking arm support on him so it wouldn't be hurting every time he moved. He shut his eyes again and thought about the recollection, but couldn't remember much, and after awhile, he gave up and decided to walk around.

Limp around, actually.

Grunting, his weak steps along the soft carpet were loud enough to be heard in the quiet room, but it only took him a second to stop when he saw the bit of light underneath the door to Alex's room. The other light came from underneath the bathroom next to it and the shower was not running. From the door, he could hear soft, melodic humming. She had probably just finished. Her apartment was obviously more expensive than his if it could support separate rooms. Dan didn't want to intrude, so instead he studied her apartment, looking for the little things he could not detect the last time he was here. A few pictures of her and some friends. A photograph of her parents next to it. Her mother was half-Hispanic and her father was white. Another photograph; this one from her youth. A teenaged photograph of her in a cowboy hat, playing the guitar. So happy. Obviously, the pictures were not taken on the East Coast, and they seemed to be from what looked like the Midwest. Her teen pictures were taken here, though. No doubt about that.

It led to him questioning why she was here in the first place, instead of places like Los Angeles, where the talent business thrived. But, then again, Veidt-Virgin Records was based here, and it rivals Capitol Records in LA.

He didn't get it. Her upbringing seemed so innocent, yet she was here with the scum, hanging with them in the clubs and working for jerkoffs like Delahunt and playing their little games.

Maybe she just wanted it.

No. That could not have been. Dan refused to accept that as the reason, even though his routine cynicism differed from his conscience.

The door opened and she came out, a bath robe covering her body. Dan looked away.

She gasped in surprise. "Sorry. Didn't know you were up. Be back in a sec."

Apologizing already?

Alex went to her room to get dressed and Dan turned around to look at other things in the main room, but noticed that her door was not closed and only very slightly ajar. He kept his eyes away. A stereo. The guitar from her picture. A vase with fresh flowers that complimented the room scheme in some strange way. Stress-release candles. Dan walked over to the window and poked his fingers through the blinds to see the outside world and knew that if he hadn't been so stupid he would be out there by now, tracking down that Brit bitch who had shot him. He noted her accent again and remembered hearing it from somewhere. It only took him a second. Those damned Protectors. If they want to have this city, then they can have it. They didn't have to shoot him.

They could have just asked.

This meant that there was something they tried to hide. Why didn't she finish him off? Why only a few flesh wounds? Now there were more people involved, and things were beginning to cloud up. Dan would have to watch his step from now on, as everything could be a potential trap. If the Protectors were so adamant about destroying the criminal structure, then why would they go after the Diablos? The Diablos didn't know how to organize; they were damned-near anarchistic. The Protectors could have gone after Delahunt way before he could have, because they were stronger in numbers and apparently great shots. Delahunt had connections. Maybe this was retaliation for doing their job for them. Then again, that wouldn't make sense.

Dan needed to know who else had connections.

But, with the little control he had over his body, he wouldn't be prowling the streets again anytime soon. Maybe a week and a half at the least before he is in shape again. Maybe more.

"How are you feeling?" she said as the door opened from behind him.

She was dressed in her (rather conservative) pajamas, though Dan half-expected something whorish such as lingerie.

"Shot."

Alex laughed, but covered her mouth with her hand. "Sorry. It must be really hurting."

"I'm alive," he said. "Feel decent, actually. A lot better than the last time I've been shot."

"You've been shot before?"

He nodded with a slight sigh, indicating the way he felt about the memories that had just surfaced. "In my first tour."

"How many tours?" she asked, walking over to the couch and sitting on it after she scooted his pillow over. She motioned for him to come to her. "Sit."

The least Dan could do was be nice to her.

"Three," he answered, sitting across from her. "Four long years abroad."

"How did you get shot?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know you found getting shot so interesting."

"I _did_ save your life, you know," she said playfully with a smile.

He looked away to conceal a slight smirk, making it seem as if it was difficult to speak about his first tour. "I was in Israel for about eight months. Didn't do much. Didn't see much action. Mostly, we were on road patrol in the outskirts; got to know the civilians, the religious workers there…lots of people. The day I was shot was when our squad was made to track down a possible bomber hiding inside the city somewhere," he continued, pausing slightly to swallow and take a breath. "Private Benitez and I were assigned to KD at the base and couldn't go."

"KD?"

"Kitchen duty," he said. "I was still pretty crazy about action back then, because I came so I could help eradicate the terrorists, not patrol some sort of city. That was too boring. So, since we knew one of the majors at the base, we convinced him to let us follow the squad with our own backup team in case anything went wrong. We followed them through the streets, but an explosion went off. Too small to be a bomb. Large enough to be trouble. Benitez and I continued down the streets where civilians had already panicked and evacuated.

"Since Benitez was a great rifleman and I was a better one, we decided to split and take the high ground; left the Hummer behind. The Hummer was hit with a roadside mine a good quarter mile later. Benitez was following me when we heard the explosion."

He then looked at her and shrugged.

"I was distracted and out in the open. Looked towards the explosion. Took a hit. Simple as that."

She nodded, but found it strange how callous he seemed towards such a harrowing experience. "Your friend saved you?"

"Yes," he replied, and she nodded. "Actually, the only reason he was alive was because I was shot. Don't think he'd have taken it really well. Probably would've died on the spot."

For some reason, Alex couldn't look at him, taking a breath to compose herself. "What happened to him?"

He took awhile to answer.

"Got shot on my third tour," Dan said. "Died."

"That's it?"

"Simple as that," he repeated coldly.

She looked back to him. "Did you ever grieve for him?"

Dan looked down with a sigh. He couldn't recall much of him, but maybe it was more of the fact that he didn't want to remember anything that had happened back then. He liked to believe that it was all behind him.

"Don't know," he said. "Can't remember. I get frustrated often. To try to put it in words is hard. I feel this mix of guilt and fury and…"

His voice somewhat shook. Alex didn't reply, and there was another silence. Dan had a pensive expression, staring into space and it seemed that for the moment, disclosing this sort of information was not much of a bother. He was actually having a non-antagonistic conversation with her for once.

"And I don't know why and I can't fix it," he followed up. "But maybe that's the point."

"I wonder what goes through your head sometimes," she said, repeating the same words she had said during their breakfast together earlier in the morning.

He snapped from his thoughtful gaze and looked at her. "Do you regret asking?"

Alex stood up and stepped in front of him, close enough that he had to look down and away from her exposed belly-button. She reached a hand out and very slowly approached to touch him as if she were touching a wounded tiger: beautiful, yet fearsome and brutal, comfortable with roaming in the concrete jungle, his home and territory. There was a release of stress and tension as Dan exhaled at her running her hand through his hair, feeling a sense of comfort that he hadn't felt in too long.

"No," she said, the words floating out in a comforting whisper. "I'm glad you told me. And I'm always here to listen."

Dan finally had the courage to look up at her and she smiled so warmly, so soothingly that he managed to return the little bit of smile he had within him. Alex caressed his cheek the sweetest way she could.

"Now, get some rest," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He was glad she didn't ask about Rorschach, but in a way, he felt that he'd have to explain it to her at some point. It was the least he could do for her kindness to him. The least he could do happened to be a lot of things.

* * *

He pulled her through the streets and hid her in his embrace in the dark alleyways as he canvassed the neighborhood for any random vacant hotel. Plenty of the troops were in town on R&R, most of them not even realizing why they were over here in the Middle East. Men died every day in some of the worst ways possible, but that didn't stop the partying, didn't stop living life like it was the last day. Dan had already called Benitez and informed him of the situation. Benitez had made a smarmy comment about him finally warming up to a woman and shut the phone. On the northeast side of town, there was a tourist hotel that most soldiers wouldn't even go to, but since the other places in the area were booked, it was the only place he could go. He needed answers, and she had them.

Nadine, who seemed to remain as easygoing as any high-class American Dan has ever seen, was one of the strangest women he had ever met. She must have been brainwashed by the bastards who were planning to sell her.

"Yeah, I need a room," Dan said with haste. He was in such a hurry that it seemed either he or Nadine was on some narcotic substance. "Quickly."

"Yes, sir," spoke the Arabic man behind the counter. "We don't get many soldiers here."

He followed with a sarcastic remark. "Great. What rooms are available?"

"Would you prefer smoking or non-smoking, sir?"

Dan exhaled with frustration. "Don't care. Smoking. Wait. Non-smoking."

"We currently have four rooms available, sir. You are very lucky, sir."

"The cheapest. Get me the cheapest."

"You don't want one by the balcony, sir?"

"I. Don't. Care."

"Pardon my English, sir. Maybe I was rude, sir."

"Fine!" Dan barked under his breath. "Get me the balcony, then."

Nadine let out a chuckle as he handed his card over the check-in counter. After a few moments of transaction, the serviceman nodded.

"Very good, sir. You won't be disappointed, sir."

Then, Dan held out his hand. "Give me the key."

"Would you like us to carry your luggage, sir?"

"Give me the _fucking_ key," Dan whispered threateningly, hoping not to make a scene.

"Okay, sir," the man said, handing Dan the key. "Enjoy your night, sir."

"Thank you," Dan said begrudgingly, snatching the key away from him and heading to the elevator.

The room was at a fairly high floor. He got to the elevator and punched in the 'up' key, and the door immediately opened as he and the woman got on. The twelfth floor was a decent ways up. He wasn't planning to stay the night.

"You're very good with people," Nadine noted.

Dan rolled his eyes. "_Oh_, so she knows how to make smartass remarks, too, huh?"

* * *

Usually, her alarm would go off to wake her up, but it was actually her cell phone that brought her awake. Diana reached over and grabbed her phone, wondering just who the hell was calling her this early at 4:30 AM. Lasko. Honestly, she wanted to toss the phone across the room and get another two hours of sleep. Then when the phone stopped ringing, there was a text.

_Hey. Outside. Freezing my ass off. Let me in?_

She wanted to type a very nice "go screw yourself" but did not have the brain energy to do so, instead getting up and electronically activating the front door for him. Diana went and sat in the stool next to her kitchen counter, her head falling and rising as she was about to drift back to sleep. Then, after a quick moment, the doorbell rang. She dragged herself to the door and opened it, but the top lock was still in place, opening the door only enough for her to see him.

"Hi!" he said with abnormal enthusiasm.

She could barely even see him since she was so tired. "It's four in the morning. Are you strung out or something?"

Lasko paused for a second, taking the question quite seriously. "Not right now. No."

"Why are you here?"

A strange, uncontrollable giggle emerged. "I hadn't slept. You know what this means?"

"You were out getting money again, weren't you?"

"No," he shook his head, but then thought about it. "Yes, actually. But even better. I was doing some real detective work."

"And this can't wait?"

"NO!"

She shushed him immediately. "Shut up! You're going to wake everyone up. Show me what you've got first to convince me to stay out of bed."

Lasko raised his cell phone to show a photograph of a marked crime scene. In the center, on the pavement, was a body. A man on his back with a bullet wound in his sternum.

"A _murder_?" she looked up with a terrifying glare. "You woke me up for a goddamn _murder_?"

"Wait till you look at his face," Lasko said, pressing the button to show the next picture.

Diana looked at the picture, then her eyes widened, surprised and awake and aware. That face.

"Did you catch the killer?"

"The night officers were there just in time, but nada. The murderer jumped into the shadows and disappeared. Fucking _shadows_, man," Lasko stated. "They needed a night detective, and I was the one closest by. Gonna let me in now? Falling asleep here."

She nodded. "Yeah. Let me get dressed."

The victim had a cheap mask on, but the mask was painted symmetrically, with ink blots evenly spaced on the face. No. Rorschach couldn't be dead already, could he? The victim in the picture was just an everyman in a Halloween costume, and he was killed for it. Last time she checked, Halloween was over. And so was Thanksgiving and Christmas. So Halloween was _really_ over. Either way, the picture was interesting. The situation was more confusing now. They'd have to find out what happened to this victim, get ballistics on the bullets, and then pursue Johnson.

* * *

He led her into the room and then shut the door suspiciously, turning around to see if the place was secluded enough. It should be. Dan then went and checked the bathroom in case something was in there, but maybe he was overreacting. They didn't have much time, did they? If they didn't, then they'd probably be tracked down, shot, and butchered to pieces by now.

"I'm right here, you know," Nadine said, stepping forward and stopping him.

She ran a finger down from the lapels of his clean fatigues to his belt, staring intensely into his eyes with fierce attraction. Her hand finally reached his crotch.

"Ahhoookay," Dan reacted jumpily, pushing her hand away. "That's not why I brought you here."

"You rescued me from that awful brothel," she spoke with a seductive, melodic tone. "That makes you my hero, doesn't it? I just want to repay you for your selflessness."

Nadine leaned in for a kiss, nearly stealing all of his willpower away, but Dan managed to put his hands on her shoulders and keep her at a reasonable distance. She looked slightly confused.

"I need to ask you some questions," he said.

But the way she was dressed reminded him so much of home, especially the suburb that he grew up in and those days back in the summer when he and his girlfriend would waste their days away watching the sun reflect off the lake water, then receiving some insane sunburns because he hated putting on sunscreen. It was all so far away from him now; it was some other experience in some other life that he did not know of.

"What kinds of questions?"

Maybe the questions could wait. The honest, but not-quite-so innocent personality of Nadine's gave the question a mark of curiosity rather than offense. Her eyes moved down to his lips, then back up to meet his own.

"Do you ever miss home?" he ended up asking, letting her go. She stepped back and took a breath.

"Home?" she replied with a soft smile, revealing a sense of nostalgia. "I don't think about it."

"Why not?"

Nadine went and sat on the hotel bed while he leaned against the wall. "I've been a personal slave to a man for these few years. He wouldn't share me with the others. Sometimes, he was a caring man, and other times, he abused me. Left me scars."

She began to toy with the bracelet on her wrist.

"But I was thankful. Thankful that it was he who beat me and not a careless man. You see, he…cared…for me, even if it was like caring for a dog. I thanked God every night for sparing my life each day," she told him. "I've seen his other girls. He sold them to other men. Terrible men who were worse than he was. Frightening, disgusting men with voracious appetites and degrading carnal desires. I cried many times for them. I had cried even more knowing that I was to be sold soon. I was becoming too old for him. He liked his women young."

Dan reached for a cigarette in his pocket and lit it as it touched his lips.

"What about you?" Nadine asked. "You ever miss home?"

"No," he shook his head.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to call this home," Dan said, exhaling a breath of smoke. "The truth is, I don't miss home at all."

Her head tilted just a bit. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I have nothing left to return to," he said, then swallowed, finding it somewhat difficult to speak to her about himself. "I never had anything. I guess you could say I enlisted because I wanted to leave home. Home was…well, it was home, but I never liked it much."

Nadine finally gave him a look of ridicule. "Don't say that."

He looked up at her, surprised at her suddenly commanding voice.

"Don't you ever imply to me that you were unloved," she said to him, standing up and closing the distance between them. "Our lives are a carousel, and we are children. We go out to play, and as we go up and down, we are going in one large circle. When we are too tired to do what we want to, we come around right back home, to a place where there is always someone who loves us."

She sniffed and held back a sob, her eyes beginning to water. Slowly, she came forward and leaned herself into him.

"I want to go _home_, Danny…" she said, her voice cracking into fragile sobs and whimpers. "I'm done playing. I want to know if there's someone out there who still loves me."

He couldn't respond. There was nothing to say. Instead, he put his arms around her and embraced her in the most comforting way that he could, and for that moment, he could almost feel something down within the pit of his stomach rise up. Nadine looked up at him with her yearning green eyes and he was frozen.

"Tell me I'll be okay," she said, scooting in closer. "Tell me I'll be fine, Dan. Make me feel fine…"

This time, he did not resist. Their breaths traded passionately as he brought her entirely to him and ran his hand up her back and up to her neck, sending chills throughout her body. His felt his way down her backside, and he could feel her slightly cold hands make their way up his shirt and run down his chest.

"No," she then said after detaching her lips from his. "Only if you want to. You probably don't think of me as respectable."

"I want this," he said, kissing his way up her neck. "As much as you do."

She smiled, despite feeling much depression a moment ago, and he carried her over to the bed while she removed her top. Dan could not believe what he was doing. But it felt good. It was something that he hadn't felt in a long time.

He wasn't alone.

**The next chapter will really move the story forward, so for you plot lovers, I've got something interesting details lined up. Hope you guys enjoyed.**


	11. Nostalgia

**Well, it's been a long while again. I've been busy with college apps and finals and the like, so I haven't had much time to think about Watchmen, but I've managed to work my way through the chapter and develop the characters a bit more, and I think you'll like the result. This is more of a theme chapter than it is plot, though there are some very important plot points here, and we see a bit more between Lasko and Diana.**

**Chapter 11: Nostalgia**

Nadine was probably the reason why he had returned home in the first place, instead of dying out in the Middle East. Instead, he came back home to the states so he could nearly die in New York. This morning, he called Johnson and told him he'd be out for a few weeks due to a severe injury. The fat man couldn't care because he was probably dealing out the heroin. Who gives a shit about the workers? He didn't think about it much after he talked to his boss. Instead, his attention was completely focused on Alex for the morning, watching her, studying her so meticulously while she told him about her life here in New York, oblivious (or not) to the fact that he was listening intently, and perhaps even smiled from time to time.

"…and that summer completely sucked," she said, finishing up a little story. "Though I did spend time with mom. Memories are killers. Ever watch home videos and get that sort of feeling?"

He shook his head. "No."

"That's a shame. Then, we could have watched it and I'd get to see your birthday, or even you as a teen," she said. "Then I'd make fun of you."

"I used to have these cool, golden arm gauntlets as a kid and I pretended to play superhero," he said. "Even had the lasso and everything."

"A lasso?"

Dan nodded with a faint smirk. "Yeah. Like Wonder Woman."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?"

His expression died into seriousness, revealing the falsity of his last few statements. "No."

"Yeah, sure," she said, not buying it. "You probably had the tiara and everything. Oh my. You probably still have all that stuff, don't you? Even the costume?"

"Fantasize all you want," he said with a shrug, lifting the mug up to his lips for a sip of coffee.

She bit her lip and gave him an astonished glance, finding it fascinating that he would make a comment like that. It wasn't like him to say those kinds of things, though it was much better than the Dan that would argue with her. This was a pleasant surprise. She lifted the sleeve of her dress shirt.

"Gee, look at time," she said. "I don't have a watch. What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "It's eight."

"I've got an interview at nine," she said. "After Delahunt…"

"What job?" he asked, cutting her off.

"As of now? Secretary," she said. "Small business across town. I'm sad that I can't grace you with my presence much longer."

"I'll be a good boy," he told her as she stood up and put on her sweater. Alex went over to her coat hanger and threw on a grey long coat, just a bit longer than the one that Rorschach wore. She brushed her bangs away from her face and fixed the black-framed glasses that she had been wearing all morning.

"How do I look?" she asked.

He crossed his arms. "Sophisticated."

"You know, I really wasn't lying about my childhood days. Sometimes, I really miss it," she said. "I can't really say the same for you, but it's bittersweet to think about it. The farmhouse. The dog sitting on the porch. Dad's old truck, and how he'd always let me sing during car rides. And how those moments can never come back. I wished I could return to those days."

Dan took another sip of the coffee. "Some of us don't."

She gave him a smile that reassured him in a way that perhaps the next chapter in his life would be worth reminiscing about. At least, that was the way that he perceived it. He kept swirling the coffee in his hands, looking out the window to see some children playing in the snow that had fallen last night.

"Nostalgia," he said. "It's has Greek roots. _Nostos_, meaning 'a return home' and _algos_, meaning 'pain and suffering.'"

Alex was yet again surprised. "Interesting."

All he did was give her a slight twitch at the end of his lips, and then she turned to leave. When she left, he suddenly realized how much he hated being injured despite feeling quite comfortable under her care which he expected wasn't completely out of kindness. People always wanted something. What does Alex want? Dan pondered for a few seconds, then mentally scolded himself. There are some good people out there. There had to be. It was just that he had not seen anyone like that for so long that it was alien and unfamiliar to him.

He shrugged and finished up the rest of his coffee. He had to do something today. Since Johnson was not expecting him to come in, he could probably wait outside the taxi company and watch what they'd be doing. With New Year's dropping by, there had to be something being cooked in New York's underbelly, coinciding with the end of the fiscal year. It would be worth a look, even if nothing could turn up. Rorschach's work still had to be done. After a second of thinking, he realized that he hadn't used his gun yet, and it would be perfect in case someone tried to attack him because of his current lack of physical freedom. Immediately, Dan headed out of Alex's room and went back to his, where she had cleaned and patched up Rorschach's things already. He also knew that he'd have to get a new coat since his other one had holes in it.

Dan shuffled through things that he would need, and in the end, discovered that the sliding mechanism on his drawer would work. He removed one of the drawers and searched through tools to find something to remove the sliding mechanism which would be well-lubricated for the contraption he was about to make. Over the next few hours, he built it with the sliding device, a small arm to hold his weapon, and a locking mechanism to make sure it wouldn't screw him over.

In the end, the gun contractor was at working standards, and honestly, it was something usually seen in the movies. He had his very small .38 special revolver hooked on the arm of the contraption that would slide out at the speed of his arm's movement. The extension of the arm would put the gun right in his hand and he'd be able to fire off all the rounds. This device would be quite effective to throw off enemies who may think he's unarmed. Of course, he'd still have to pack his other weapons. This thing won't save him from a large group of adversaries (he wondered if he'd ever get into a fight with many people at all, or if he'd ever have to kill weakly henchmen to get things done). To make sure it wouldn't slide out when his arms pointed straight down, he built a locking mechanism that would continue to stay in place so long as he didn't pull too hard on his ring finger. There was a strap tied to his ring finger that had a string tied to it which would unlock the lock whenever he pulled on it, but would lock back into place so long as there wasn't anything pulling. When the gun was out, he'd have to manually lock it back into place by pushing it until it clicked behind the lock.

But then Dan's mind wandered back around to the fact that he needed a new coat because his current one would draw great suspicion. He went to his wallet and checked to see if he had enough cash since using his debit card would be unwise in this case. Nothing. He'd have to go to the bank, get a withdrawal, drop by the store, and then check on Johnson. Looked like his day would be full, after all.

* * *

It was a phony. The true Rorschach, her dad said, was much more cunning, and had the real mask. And the damned guy even had the nerve to meet him at his own home! Her father sounded like a giddy little nerd as he explained it to her over the phone. Diana was told not to mention this to her mother. Probably for the best, anyhow. Their differing attitudes towards Rorschach were very awkward, but she appreciated the viewpoints despite the extremities. She wanted to question whether her father gave any help to this new Rorschach, but she was so tired that night that she just decided to turn in.

The ballistics on the Rorschach phony were very fascinating, since there were several bullets found despite no shells. Whoever came to kill this imposter wasn't too worried about being traced through the bullets, since there seemed to be no personal motivation for this murder, anyway. Her suspicions towards the Protectors was becoming increasingly stronger as the days had passed, but what was worse was that she had no idea where any of them were, and even worse than that was that she could not point the bullets towards them if they actually did it. There was no proof and no evidence. It was like a ghost had done it. Now, they were on the path to tracking down Johnson, Dan Lee's manager at the taxi company. If she couldn't get him, then she'd have to use Dan instead, and assume her student persona again, which she so incredibly loathed since it was boring and uninteresting.

"I always hate how people compare you to your parents," Lasko said, seeming to have gotten a bit more sleep since he came knocking on her door. "Like, 'Oh, she looks just like you' or 'Oh, he's got your nose'."

Diana stopped at the red light. "What I hate even worse is when old people tell you how 'you're going to be next' whenever there's a wedding or something. Got a lot of that when I was a kid."

"Hated that, too."

"I hated it up to a point," she noted. "Tried that on the old people whenever there was a funeral. Didn't turn out too well."

His eyes widened and he looked at her with shock. "Wow. That…really sucks."

Then, Diana's lips stretched into a mischievous smile, and he scoffed.

"Oh, very funny."

She chuckled. "I couldn't imagine you were so gullible."

"A rare sighting. Anyway, you wanted to be a cop, right? Must've been strange as a kid," Lasko asked. "I'm sure you weren't into all those pretty dresses and princess stuff and more into Cowboys and Indians."

"Bit of both, actually," she said. "My mother was always amazed at how I managed to keep my femininity."

Lasko chuckled in a strange, satisfied way and looked out the window, which caught her attention. As the light turned green, she continued down the street and realized they were close to the taxi place, but looked over at her partner anyway and glared at him.

"What?" she demanded.

"I won't say that it's nothing," Lasko admitted. "But I won't tell. It's not important."

"I can hurt you."

He raised an eyebrow. "You gonna cuff me, too?"

"I'm wearing a gun."

He smirked. "I like where this is going."

"Just tell me. I can handle it. You won't hurt my feelings."

"It's nothing really," he said. "I'm just surprised. Some of the guys back at the department figured you for a different type of girl. The non-male-wanting type. Others weren't so sure."

She held her stare at him as they stopped to turn the corner and into the alleyway, where they could probably watch the company for a bit before moving in.

"Oh?" she inquired. "And what did _you_ think?"

"You were feminine enough. Anyone can see that," he stated. "But I _did_ wonder if you ever ventured into the same sex before. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Your boyfriend would be fine with that, I'm sure. I mean, if _I_ was your boyfriend, I'd like—err, I mean most men would _like_ that, uh, and I _am_ a _man_, and no, that's not what I meant, uh…"

Diana watched him stumble over words for the next few seconds.

"What you do is your own business," he smiled, finally articulating a statement. "And that's …jolly good with me."

She didn't answer back, so he was unsure of her reception to his words.

This wasn't the most patrolled part of town. If there was an actual serious operation going on, they were certainly outnumbered and couldn't just waltz in asking questions. They also didn't have any warrants, but luckily for them, the garage was large enough for probable cause, if they could see anything anyway. Across the street of the taxi company was a café that would be a pretty nice watching spot for her so that Lasko could go in and have a word with Johnson. Since they would be talking about weapons, it could be pretty serious, so Johnson could be making a break for it if he was startled, or he wouldn't answer any questions. The only time she'd be able to go in was if Lasko gave her the okay.

The car stopped in front of the diner and a rather sleep-deprived Lasko took a breath and patted his lap.

"Well, looks like this is where I step out," he said. "I'll get back to you as soon as I straighten out Johnson a bit, so don't feel left out or anything. See you in a bit."

"Yeah," she said, but before he left, she put her hand down on his lap without knowing, which startled him somewhat. "But just for the record, I don't have a boyfriend. And I'm not a lesbian."

He winced at her touching of his lap and looked down at it, to which she promptly drew her hand back with embarrassment.

"It's just…you're a bit standoffish sometimes. Probably because you're not into the whole exploiting-the-public sort of thing. Good times," he grinned goofily. "See ya."

She waited for him to get out, then she exited the vehicle, too, and turned towards the café, which was decently filled with mostly college kids who were just about ready to go to work. There wouldn't be much commotion, so she could probably just sit quietly and have some coffee. Diana also checked to see if there were other kids from the University around, as well, since she didn't want to be recognized; she also had her age working against her. She was mature enough, but still didn't have that thirty-something, independent woman edge to her quite yet. However, she did seem quite young enough to pass for twenty-two, though she was already headed towards twenty-five. Then, she felt old, a sensation that coiled up her stomach like a metal spring tangling itself together.

After entering the café, she looked for a place to sit. Her time on the force hadn't been that long, but it was long enough for her to realize how life in the SIU would turn out. It would be much better if there wasn't so much corruption. But, the change in pace, especially the unexpected unpredictability of the Rorschach cases (and murders) has proven exhilarating, like something out of a detective show she used to watch as a kid. And now, she couldn't believe she was actually using her training to keep up with these crimes, when just a few weeks ago, she was drowned in uncertainty.

Diana ordered an espresso and received it almost immediately since there weren't too many customers on the days following the holidays, but after receiving her coffee, she looked for a table to sit, and saw the strangest man in a fresh, black coat sitting alone, looking out the window. A smile came to her face and she strutted over to him as her student persona would.

"Dan?"

He looked right up and spotted her as she brushed her short hair away from her face. He didn't know what to say, and instead dimly smiled, though it was more of a lip-twitch. Diana was actually genuinely surprised to see him here.

"Remember me?"

Dan cleared his throat, seeming to be much more receptive this time than he was during their other encounters. "Yeah."

"By name?" she raised an eyebrow with a smile of her own.

"Yeah. _Diana_," he answered as if he was reluctant to see her. He seemed to be in a lighter mood, as well, though his surprise was still apparent. "Wow, you…just can't stay away from me, can you?"

It was almost like she caught him off-guard, which she did, but he was trying to react accordingly.

"What?" she laughed softly.

"I'm kidding. I think," he mumbled, faking a grin, though she didn't quite know it. "Sit down."

Happily, she sat right across from him next to the window, just like how their little date went awhile ago.

"So, you never called me or anything," she said. "What's up with that?"

"I don't remember giving you my number _don't make a scene_," he said to her nervously, with uncertainty in his voice.

He was never really defensive about himself. From what she gathered from their previous conversation, which was quite awhile ago, he seemed to be more than willing to talk about anything, since she concluded that he was socially deprived and just needed someone to speak to. What she wanted to know now was what role he played in the taxi company's heroin and weapons ring, and if that had anything to do with the murders in the El Diablo territory, which could also be attached to the dead Rorschach imposter they found in that random back alley early this morning.

"Relax, Dan," she told him. "I understand. You probably had family to visit or something. It was Christmas, after all."

"Uh, yeah," he nodded. "Had a cousin to visit. Was fun. Got out and…got…drunk. With women and vodka and stuff. At the college, if you heard."

His voice seemed to calm after his brief ineptitude, which struck her odd because he was never usually this surprised to see her, even when they had that random exchange of glances out on the street while he drove his taxi a week or two ago.

"No, I didn't," she said. "I was with my family."

"Oh, good," he nodded, slightly mumbling. "Family is great."

She then looked down at his arm, noticing that it was in a support. "What happened to your arm?"

He seemed to have gathered himself by now. "I was coming home one night and the soles on my shoes had frozen because of the snow, so I slipped going up the stairs and smashed my forearm."

"You poor thing!"

"It wasn't too bad."

"So you're here taking a break or something?"

"No, actually," he answered. "Just got off. Night shift."

Perhaps she could work with him here, and get him to confess about the heroin ring, or at least what Johnson knows. Dan certainly worked for a shady enough company for him to be doing the same things a man like Johnson was doing.

"You don't look so exhausted," she smiled cutely.

Dan shrugged. "You don't look so academic."

He referred to the way she dressed, since her attire obviously differed from her much more youthful college student look. Perhaps that was the surprise, though Diana had her own doubts, even if she looked very different from her other persona. Nonetheless, she was surprised with his comment.

"Diana," he said very comfortably, seeming to have received her expression of surprise. "You're not wearing façades, are you?"

"What?" she asked.

"College student by day, intern by night. I'm sorry you have to juggle such a hectic schedule. It's amazing how you manage to keep enthusiasm with such little sleep."

He was turning the conversation around, transforming her initial questioning act into a verbal game. Diana couldn't force the question on him, because she wasn't sure of his intentions with those questions. A man like Dan could just be making conversation, though she couldn't quite tell, since she honestly had never seen a side of him such as this: terse, challenging, and perhaps even confident, a far cry from the depressed taxi driver she had come to know during their short time meeting with each other.

"You should see me on my good days," she answered, hiding her caution behind a glib smirk.

"I'll take a rain check on that."

She leaned in a bit close to him, and halfway expected him to retreat out of discomfort, but he didn't budge. "Can I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"School's been really stressful lately. A friend of mine wants to kick back and just relax tonight," she said, trying to bait him for the heroin. "I was wondering if you could help us out with that."

He raised an eyebrow. "What did I do to get you to miss me so much?"

Diana blinked, taking a moment before she understood his quip. "Oh! Uh, that's not what I meant—"

"Joking," he said. "So. You know a little something."

She nodded. "Word gets around."

Dan challenged her with a slight smirk. "Go to the cops."

"Are you crazy?" she said, leaning back in her seat.

"No," he said, knowing exactly what he needed to say. "You want your dosage of happiness, go to the cops. Personally, the company doesn't involve me anyway."

He was avoiding the explicit term 'heroin,' which frustrated her greatly.

"Why not?"

"They don't trust me."

Diana pretended to scan the room with her eyes as if she was watching to see if anyone was listening in.

"Come on, Danny. I need my fix."

"Oh, you don't need to be fixed. You don't look broken to me," he shook his head, evading addressing her directly. "What would your father say?"

"I don't have a father."

He crossed his arms. "Really?"

"Please," she pleaded with her hands clasped together.

He leaned back and crossed his arms, studying her actions thoroughly. "How do I know you're not completely truthful with me?"

"I'm not a cop," she stated, taking some offense.

"_Diana_," he admonished in an almost teasing demeanor. "I never suggested _that_."

"You—" she paused, finding it useless to accuse him of making her walk into that one. "Look, I'm not a cop, alright? Do I look like one to you?"

"Yes."

She was speechless for a few seconds. "Well…I'm not!"

"Look," he began explaining, seemingly having halted his efforts to deflect her questions. "I'm really not into…whatever you think I am. They don't actively include me into any of it, though I'll say that I'm a perfectly good courier. I found that out not too long ago."

"How so?" she inquired. "And why would you be a good courier?"

"I keep my mouth shut and do my job and I don't ask questions," Dan answered, reaching for a sip of his coffee. "But, I figured that out when they fixed up my car with special groceries."

Diana blinked, listening carefully to his words. She wasn't supposed to be attached to her previous (and unfinished) assignment, but she was willing to listen to him. He didn't seem to be the person that people like Johnson would trust, anyway; at least, not openly. How could she know he wasn't lying to her? Her eyes deflected every time she tried to read him, for his stare was quite uncomfortable and intense at times, like looking into the sun.

"Cops pulled me over," he said. "Asked me some questions. When I came back to my car, the 'groceries' were taken. Put right back into circulation."

She tried to say something that wouldn't overtly give herself away, but somehow, she had a feeling that he was on to her. And yet, he was talking.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked so carefully.

"I hate the cops."

She couldn't tell if he was screwing around or not, since his current lack of facial expressions disguised much of what he was truly thinking. Diana wondered if anyone ever knew what Dan was thinking, but she could not dwell on that possibility; there was still work to be done, and this Rorschach case was getting stranger and stranger. It wasn't surprising to her that the cops may be involved with the trade, as well, but corruption had always settled with the detectives and a few lawmen; the idea that the entire department was just a big drug front was startling. If she had her way, she would root out all of those involved and clean things up, but she feared that it could crunch a large chunk of the department away.

"_Well gee look at the time_," Dan hastily muttered. "_I have to go_."

Apparently she had been in a thinking state for a second too long. Diana's eyes shot toward him as he stood up to leave, his vision focused on what was out the window.

"Wait!"

He was already halfway to the door.

"You forgot your coffee!" she said to him. He hadn't even taken a sip of it.

Dan turned around and came back for just a split moment, eyeing at his coffee.

"I have some at home," he stated, leaving.

Before she could stop him, he was already way out the door, past a student reading a newspaper, and beyond an old woman in a wheelchair. Despite being injured with a slight limp in his step, it was strange to see that he was still so hasty. Little did she know that she would be thanking Dan for his hastiness, since the loud, egotistical man she was partnered up with was already heading right back, though she was in no mood to speak with him. It was very difficult to crack the taxi driver, but in a way, Diana felt that he was telling somewhat of the truth but definitely making up some parts. How could he be so confident in himself all of a sudden? How could she not solve these murders? How would she ever be able to match these unseen enemies?

An enthusiastic Lasko sauntered through the door and right at her table, seating himself with a self-satisfied smile neatly cut right across his face.

"Hey, free coffee!" he noticed, reaching for the paper cup with the lid on top. It was still steaming. "You remembered."

Frustratingly, she looked up at him, breaking from her train of thought. "_What_?"

Lasko seemed to pause a bit with a stationary grin, realizing her mood and letting himself cool his attitude a bit; it was a rare thing of him to do. He swallowed and spoke like someone who had just severely offended another person. "We agreed on…on coffee last night. At-at the Diablo scene."

Diana watched him stumble around words like a nervous little schoolboy, seeming to have been greatly affected by the forceful tone of her previous comment.

"I joked that you'd pick one up for me…or something," he explained with soft smiles, having trouble articulating. "You…you know…didn't have to. It was just a joke. Heh. Well, no. Not. Uh, not—not a very funny one, though."

He cleared his throat and looked away while she stared at him, and she could sense his discomfort, feeling as though she was in the conversational position of Dan now and he was in _her_ position. Taking a sip of the coffee, his eyebrows slightly twitched upwards with approval; it was quite good, it seemed. Still, he dared not to look her in the eye, probably considering how much stress he's put her through ever since their partnership on the heroin case. She also noticed how much softer he was today; it didn't quite fit in with the hard-and-cocky Lasko that she knew too well of.

"When I was a kid, I was never really comfortable around people," he said, shaking his head.

He stared down at the table, swirling his coffee in the cup. In a way, Diana wanted him to look her in the eye so she could tell him she was sorry. But she could never bring herself to do so. What's more was that he seemed to be overreacting to her unintentional adversity, which indicated that something else came up while he was speaking to Johnson.

"I think it's why I never got myself to do good things. To make the right choices," he explained. "And when the time comes, I'll gladly pay the price."

Lasko eyes finally followed their way back up at her and he displayed a crooked, bittersweet smile.

"You do the right things, and I respect that," he said. "Don't change it."

His voice sounded like it had collapsed with those last few words, and then he turned his head back down towards his cup and took another sip of coffee. The words reminded her of her first few months on the force, and the drive that fueled her to get out of bed every morning and get to work on cases, even if some of them were crappy. Sometimes, we forget why we do the things we do, but what we do still affects everyone around us. Perhaps Lasko forgot why he signed up, or perhaps he never had a reason like hers.

Lasko stared off into thought again, a troubled expression on his face. Without thinking, Diana slowly slid her hand across the table, and she rested her hand on top of his, a gesture of warmth that she had hardly ever given others. It was just as comforting for her, as well. The only other time that she had felt like this was when she last spoke to her mother before entering the police academy. Laurie Juspeczyk had promised herself that she wouldn't cage her children like her own mother had; she wouldn't push her child to become a crime fighter. How ironic it was then, that Diana wanted to become one. It was a feeling that she hadn't felt in such a long time; the bittersweet familiarity caused a minor heartache.

Lasko once again looked at her, accepting her gesture and allowing himself to her comfort for just that one moment.

Then they'd have to get back to work.

* * *

So, give me a sitrep.

His wounds heal quick. He's doing fine. I think he's finally opening up.

Alright. Don't get trigger happy. Let him run loose a little bit. Let him do his job, then we can get moving. These next few rest days could prove worthwhile if you watch closely enough.

How did your little hunting trip go yesterday?

Another imposter. I didn't even bother to get rid of the body. There's too many of them.

This whole city's about to go insane with psychopaths roaming the streets thinking they're Rorschach.

It complicates things.

Of course.

Though, it could provide a way out once we're finished. When he knows, he will disguise himself amidst the chaos. Then we'd be in a hitch.

I think with Alex in mind, we can probably get him where we want to when his time is up.

Exactly why you're keeping on top of things, right?

Yep.

Alright. That's good then. See ya.

Bye.

* * *

The car ride was quiet, with the only sound being the ruckus of New York City reverberating up and down the metropolitan streets, with men and women in suits dressed up to go to work, stuffing themselves into the subway systems like little ants scurrying back to their hill.

"What happened with Johnson?"

Their conversation at the restaurant caused a silence that the two rarely ever had; the normal conversations would be either about how much money Lasko got from his efforts aside his job at the police department or how Lasko fed his ego. Diana never spoke of herself much, but it was a welcome alteration that he managed to see others rather than just himself. In a way, she earned some of his respect, though she wondered if that ever accounted for much.

"Oh, Johnson," his eyes lit up. "He talked. Said that the bullet was sold to some black chick about a week ago. Even stranger, he sold the subsonic rounds himself."

Immediately, Diana thought of the woman from the Protectors, the one called Tribal. When Tribal addressed her parts of the many various messages posted online (hijacking the television must have been much harder to get to after their first round), Diana detected the British accent in her voice.

"Was she American?"

Lasko nodded, acknowledging his understanding of her question. "I asked the same thing. Johnson said she probably was, but there was something funny about her voice. It felt a bit forced, or something. You think it was…?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Even so, we don't know who the hell she is, so where do you expect we start?" he asked. Then, he sat up straight with some excitement. "Oh, I know! We'll stage a rape and have the Protectors show up. Then we arrest the shit out of them and haul them down to the station."

Diana raised an eyebrow. "_That_ particular crime?"

"Well, there's only two of us."

Her face was still, for she was not surprised with his response, though she was also in some contemplation. "I'm trying to come up with a way for you to be cruder right now…but I can't seem to conjure anything."

"Okay, detective," Lasko folded his arms. "What do you have in mind, since you're so geniusey compared to me?"

They could probably run a facial recognition device, but that would be most difficult to do, especially since all they can do is search blindly. On top of that, she was sure that these people were professionals since they cleaned up after themselves. This was probably political, and she wanted to connect it to the crime scenes that involved Rorschach, since the timing was obviously no coincidence. Were they top government officials hired to take him out? It could explain the dead Rorschach impersonator they found early this morning.

"About the fake Rorschach," she finally asked him. "Did you get the results from ballistics yet?"

"Yeah. Got a call right as I stepped out of the taxi place," Lasko answered. "They said it was a rifle round. 7.62 by 50…or something?"

They stopped at a red light. "7.62 by 51mm NATO. It's a rifle round. It was probably subsonic if fired over a medium distance with a sound suppressor attached. I'll take a wild guess and say that they used some sort of high quality scoped rifle. Maybe an M14 EBR."

"What? How do you know this shit? I can barely tell the difference between a nine millimeter and a .38!" he said with wide eyes. "Who else would you suspect?"

"They could be working with Rorschach. Who knows. Maybe this is some huge gimmick."

"So you think they're like GI Joe or something?"

"Probably former special forces or some sort of private party. The Gladiator and the Sarge are likely from USSOCOM or perhaps the CIA. Tribal _has_ to be from the Royal Marines or something. Or even MI6. The Rorschach murders are more grisly, like they're designed to intimidate. I'm not sure about him. Since we're not dead, I'm assuming they either don't know about us, or they think we're too stupid to figure this out."

Despite the wild theories, Lasko was still unsure of their next step. "They're masked, anyway. I don't think we'll be stumbling upon revelations anytime soon. Unless we do _my_ plan."

"I know what we have to do," she said. "I know someone who will help us."

The only person she knew who had tons of experience hacking government systems ever since the worldwide release of the internet was none other than Sam Hollis himself, or Daniel Dreiberg, as those close to him knew him by. Her father began using computer systems about the time she was born, and even though he quit running outside with that ridiculous owl suit of his, he never stopped learning about ways to keep things in check, especially with he and her mom's new identities back in the eighties. He would know what to do.

* * *

He was nearly frightened when she walked in on him unhooking the gun contractor off his arm.

"Sorry," Alex said. "Need some time alone?"

Dan turned to look at her and shook his head. "Go ahead. Sit down."

It was strange when he realized that she tried her hardest not to pay attention to what he was doing, as if it was invading his privacy. An invasion of privacy it was, but Dan disliked how he had treated her, transforming her initially expressive demeanor to a shier, submissive one to complement his own behavior. He wanted to set things right with her. It was the best thing he could do at this point, even though he someone felt that she was often afraid to confront him. Alex was brave to do so anyhow.

"Your room is so clean," she complimented.

He put the contractor on the table, where he had already cleaned up the mess from creating it earlier this morning. "Thanks. How was the interview?"

"I think it went well," she nodded self-assuredly.

Dan came over and sat next to her. "You sound confident. I'm sure you did fine."

Her eyes followed their way over to the gun contractor resting on his desk and he knew he couldn't keep her curiosity for long.

"It's for protection."

She looked at him. "What are you, like some kind of superhero?"

"No," he shook his head. "Superheroes always save the day from the bad guys."

"And you?"

He shrugged. "I take out the trash."

"So you think you're helping people by killing for them?"

"I don't help others," Dan said. "I just make sure nothing hurts them."

He could feel the separation splitting them apart, but he understood if she disapproved. Alex looked upon him with pity and perhaps even disappointment, and he never looked away.

"Do you think I'd be doing this if I had a choice?"

"There's always a choice."

There was no hostility in his responses, as he answered them plainly and simply as he could. "When you've seen the things I've seen, I don't think there is."

Indeed, he would be lying to himself if he said his perceptions hadn't changed since he donned the mask.

"I do it because I'm compelled. Because there is no going back."

He stood up and moved to his kitchen, where he had a protein shake waiting for him in the refrigerator. Grabbing it and coming back around to lean against the counter, he shook his head with some emptiness in his eyes. He'd had time to consider just exactly what his purpose was in coming back home ever since he put on the Rorschach mask, and realized that the anger that he concealed had passed long ago. It was like moving through the motions for him now. The anger was just a simulation. He knew this when he no longer needed the journal, and when he no longer wrote in his own. Satisfying the frustration was supposed to mean something to him, but it never stopped. It was simply a part of him now, and nothing was going to change it. Alex has to know this.

"My life stopped moving," he said. "A lot of us wish we could go back, but all we can do when we think about it is remember how much time has gone by, and how much of it we've lost. Me? I died in the Middle East."

Alex shook her head. "I don't believe that."

He raised an eyebrow as he set down his shake on the counter, somewhat taken aback by her response, which conveyed outright disagreement. She stood up from the couch and edged closer to him, and he didn't budge. Alex stared intensely into his eyes, and even bit her lip as she looked down his body, a subtle action that froze him still. All he did was stared back, waiting for her to do something, which she took as a welcome. She pressed herself against him and grabbed his hand, placing it on the curvature of her hip.

"I see someone who still has a chance," she said, her eyes as focused as they could be. "I see you."

Alex moved her face closer to his, but he didn't budge. However, Dan didn't seem to be in any submissive mood, instead looking upon her with pity for her physical desires. At a time like this, it showed weakness, and nothing was about to penetrate Rorschach's armor. Well, maybe bullets, but certainly not the sensation of a woman's touch. For a moment, she realized that he wanted to let himself go to her, but he couldn't, like an invisible force was keeping them apart.

"I don't expect you to understand."

It was all he said as he lightly pushed her out to arms length. Surprised, Alex slowly let herself retreat and come to her senses, brushing some hair past her face and nodding in slight embarrassment.

"Sorry."

"Simple pleasures render us immediately happy," he muttered somewhat somberly. "But happiness never lasts."

She wasn't angry at him either, instead wondering just what kind person would deny himself an expression of affection? For the moment, she was also perplexed at how much Dan had changed since she first spoke with him. He was not afraid to admit that there were others who shared his isolation, but even so, he would not allow himself to let others help with his burden. She wanted to relieve him.

"What does?"

And yet, his eyes were sharp and strong, though weathered and exhausted on the surface. He radiated such confidence in his gaze that she recognized the raging flames burning himself up from the inside. These flames were not evocations of pure anger, but it was more of a drive; an intensity that she couldn't put a finger on. What drove this man to put on the mask?

"Dedication. Will. Duty," he said.

"And do we find happiness through that? Do we ever find some kind of end?"

Her voice nearly cracked with those last words, as saying them seemed to hurt her in the right places, like it was something that she had long wanted to find the answer to. He questioned himself if there would ever be an end. How far was he willing to go? He wanted to tell her something pleasant, but knew he couldn't, and he hated being the person in this position. But it was the way things were.

"I don't think there is. We do what we have to because we must. We do it forever. We sacrifice to serve something greater than ourselves. I never understood what duty meant when I was in the Corps."

It wasn't until he showed up bloodied on her doorstep.

We have to sacrifice everything we love most, until it has degenerated, withered away until all that's left is nostalgia, a burden that we must carry everywhere we go.

**I hope that satisfied most of you. I have such joy in constructing the plot that I hope you haven't given up on me yet, because there are more and more surprises coming up in the later chapters. If you've read this, thanks for putting up with my multiple-week hiatuses. See you next time.**


	12. Strike Two

**Alright, guys, this chapter is the longest so far of the story, and if you feel deprived of Dan, Diana, and the others, then you'll certainly get your fill here. This chapter has only a short section of Dan in present day in it, but it is probably one of the most important chapters I've written thus far, since it not only makes good progress of the plot, but it reveals much of the great mystery of Dan's past. The plot part is overtaken by Diana, who, in this chapter, vigorously searches for some clarity in what has happened in the Rorschach case thus far, among other more personal things.**

**To my regular readers, I know you'll enjoy this chapter, which I won't spoil here in this author's note. Thanks for your support, and I'm glad to let you know that I'm already considering a sequel to this story. But before we get on to that, let's see how the rest of this story unfolds, yeah? Enjoy.**

**Chapter 12: Strike Two**

"So am I going home?" she asked.

Dan didn't mind having Nadine lean her head on his shoulder while they sat in his room at the base. It has been awhile since someone's done that. 'Awhile' was years.

"Yes," he replied. "I just checked the airport. They'll send you on the next flight out."

Lifting her head up just a bit to meet his gaze, her beautiful eyes were awash with concern. "And you? Will I see you?"

He reached for a pen on the desk where he wrote his letters (or used to, anyway) and searched for something to write on. After a brief search, he discovered a business card for the local batting cage set up by some of the guys awhile ago, probably left behind by Benitez. It said "Strike Two Batting Cages" on the front and an Arabic translation just below it. On the back of the off-white card, he scribbled down his number and handed it to her. When she received it, she was so thrilled that she wrapped her arms around him and embraced him. He was somewhat uncomfortable with it, however, but tried his best to return the same feeling.

"I guess I'll be calling you," she said. "So, how many days do you have left?"

"Two more days of R&R before I'm put back to finish up my rotation," he answered. "Then it's twenty-three days left until homecoming."

His voice sank into a low, unenthusiastic drone with the last two words.

"Something wrong?"

He shook his head. "No."

"That's not true. I'm here to listen."

Dan gave her a look and contemplated for a moment, but shook his head. "I'd rather keep this thought to myself."

She placed a hand on his cheek and came in for a kiss. This was how most of the week had gone since he rescued her from that awful club/brothel/slavehouse. The day always started with a kiss. Over the course of the day, she would watch the others go on with their business, then when he was finished with his routines they would spend the night together, in private, since Benitez was usually out at the club getting wasted. When Dan brought her to base, no one really seemed to know what to do with her, until Bronstein put him in contact with some traveling American journalists who absolutely wanted to put her on a flight to America, even going so far as to pay for the plane ticket themselves. She would be traveling back with them and perhaps do some sort of Good Morning America interview.

After his report to Bronstein, whom he met during his last R&R, he was given the green light to take out the back of the club on the same night that a few key buyers would be there; it meant that he couldn't be with her this evening.

"Not tonight," he said. "I have duties elsewhere."

"On R&R?" she asked, wondering why he would have any duties while on his short break.

Then there was a knock on the door.

"Sergeant Lee?" asked a voice.

"Yes?" Dan replied while getting up.

"There's a Mr. Pierce here to see you. He's out by the office."

"Be there right away."

The plan was simple. Tonight there would be enough buyers in the back to set the place on fire with a small IED that would shred the entire back half of the club. It would look like a terrorist bombing. He needed to talk to 'Mr. Pierce' to check up on things before he could deliver the stuff to the correct place. Nadine let go of Dan and he stood up to look for his military cap.

"I'll see you tonight," he told her. "I hate to leave you like this."

"Dan, I'm not a child."

He paused for a moment and blinked.

"Right," he said with a nod, putting on his cap. "Sorry about that."

She noticed the somewhat troubled look that he wore as he spoke those words.

"Something _is_ wrong."

"It has nothing to do with you," he stated. "I'll see you later."

* * *

"Can I get you anything?" she asked.

Lasko gave her a wide grin and politely shook his head. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hollis. Thanks."

The older woman stepped from the kitchen into the living room. "Oh, please. Call me Laurie."

"Not Sandra?" he raised an eyebrow.

Diana cleared her throat audibly, though neither Laurie nor Lasko knew whom she directed it towards.

"Everyone called me Laurie when I was a child. It's my middle name."

With a quick glance towards Diana, she sat on the couch across from him, placing her tea on the coffee table as they waited for Diana's father to return from the grocery store.

"So how long have you two been together?"

He was surprised with her choice of words. "Uh—"

"We've been working together on and off since I joined the force," Diana immediately answered, cutting him off.

"That's strange. Laurie never talks about you much, Jack."

"It's…" he looked at Diana, who fired him a passive-aggressive glare, "…mostly just professional. We do our jobs and nothing more, nothing less."

Diana seemed somewhat pleased that he didn't spit out an entire train wreck to get her mother to go off on a tangent about how she never searches for the right man.

"Are you in a relationship right now?" Laurie asked after taking a sip of tea.

Diana ran her tongue against her cheek. Sometimes, train wrecks were inevitable.

"_Mom_," she snapped with aggression restrained.

He was speechless himself, having barely anything to respond to what her mother had imposed, as well as Diana's sudden hiss.

"_What_?" Laurie said innocently. "He is a very nice man. Besides, this is just a question."

For all her mother's complaining about how her grandmother used to embarrass her all the time, she didn't seem to have adapted much. Diana knew her mother was a usually stubborn, yet considerate woman, but she always hated it when she shoved her into the spotlight. It felt more like being a deer caught in the headlights. And then the deer would get hit and explode into tiny little bits of meat and bone and no one would want to clean it up.

"No, Laurie. I am not," he answered.

"That's perfect, then!"

Diana's eyes widened. "Mom!"

The unlocking of the front door salvaged what little self-esteem that she had left. The door swung open and a man carrying the groceries stepped in, chilled from the cold outside.

"I'm home," Dan Dreiberg stated, carrying the groceries to the kitchen. He looked over towards the living room and delight carried itself into his expressions. "Hey! Didn't expect you two kids."

He set the bags on the kitchen table and walked into the living room, eyeing them and immediately walking over to his daughter for a hug. After, his eyes settled on Lasko, whom he had never met before. Dan held his hand out and smiled comfortably.

"And who is this fine young man?" he asked Diana.

"Jack Lasko," Lasko replied, shaking Dan's hand.

Dan chuckled. "So _you're_ the reason why Diana hasn't been visiting much lately."

Lasko returned a smirk of his own. "Partially."

"_Detective_ Lasko and I," she emphasized followed with a slight pause, "are in need of your help, dad."

"Oh," Dreiberg noted with a bit of disappointment, letting go of his hand. "I thought this was a different circumstance. Nonetheless, it is a pleasure to meet you, detective. I trust you're keeping my daughter safe from harm?"

Diana rolled her eyes.

"More like the other way around, Mr. Hollis."

"Please. Call me Dan," Dan said, nodding with acknowledgment as Laurie went to unpack the groceries that he had just brought in. "So, what do you two need? Another Rorschach story? I've got hundreds and hundreds of those, like this one time, when I spilled my coffee all over his coat—"

"No stories this time, dad," Diana spoke curtly. "We need information from…inside places."

Her father's head tilted just slightly. "How far inside?"

She gestured with her hands with some uncertainty. "Like, say…the Pentagon?"

He looked at the two of them and wondered about the seriousness of their appearance at his home. Diana held her strong gaze while Lasko had an innocent smile, as if he wasn't any bit liable for what they were about to do since this was her plan and not his. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of that request, Dan let out a hearty chuckle.

"How funny," he remarked sarcastically. "But not really. You sure do take a lot after your grandfather."

"Dad, this is no joke."

"What the hell do you need in the Pentagon?"

Lasko then cut into the conversation. "You sure we can trust your father?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Do I have to ask twice?" Dan asked, reverting their attention back to his previous statement.

"We need info on the three Protectors who've been hijacking the TV every now and then," she answered. "We suspect that they are former Special Forces."

The old man crossed his arms with some skepticism. "Even if you may have reasonable suspicions, it's been awhile since I've been in the Owlstation."

"The _what_?" Lasko asked with a chuckling exhalation.

"Uh, let's not jump too far ahead of ourselves here," Diana suddenly said. "Dad, this could somehow tie to outer-military affairs, especially in the misuse of private military companies. Someone could be paying these people to clean up the city. We really need your help. People are dying."

With an uncertain sigh, he brought a finger up to adjust his glasses. "I guess I don't really have a choice."

While Diana nodded with a pleased smile, Lasko was still confused, his mind having settled on a word that he couldn't quite process completely.

* * *

He and Mr. Pierce stepped into the parking lot next to the military base and approached an old grey sedan that seemed to sag a bit on the back end. They weren't kidding. One spark of flame inside the trunk and the both of them will be sent to the long line to gain entry into heaven. Or hell. Pierce, his contact, sped up ahead and popped open the trunk. He had bribed the patrols on security to record a security loop for the next ten minutes to buy them a bit of time before the plan was executed.

Pierce reached quickly and tossed Dan a small tactical knife, meant to be used with a small firearm for fighting at close quarters, since Dan had already been trained extensively in that field back when he was stationed in Israel. He couldn't carry much with him, since this operation would require very hasty movement, and he didn't expect to be in any large firefights. So, Pierce tossed him a pistol, a Sig P226 that fired 9mm rounds. It was the official sidearm of the Navy (specifically the SEALs), which struck him odd that he'd be receiving one, though he didn't linger upon it for long. Dan didn't prefer the caliber since it was fairly small, but at very close ranges the enemy (who would have no armor) won't be able to tell the difference. Pierce also handed him a sound suppressor, which wouldn't be quite effective indoors anyhow, unless there was loud music blaring to drown out the pop and hiss of the pistol fire. Conveniently, there would be.

"I forget sometimes," Dan said as he screwed the sound suppressor onto his Sig. "Why I'm doing this."

It had to look like a terrorist bombing; there had to be no trace of military interference. Dan, himself, had to pick up his pistol shells if he used any. He wasn't even instructed to rescue any of the girls inside if there were any. Potentially, a handful of Nadines could die tonight, but it was a necessary sacrifice if his superiors weren't lying to him. He didn't want to think about it.

"They're orders."

Pierce seemed aloof; a great stench of indifference radiated from him. Dan assumed that he'd explain himself by saying that this was his job, and it didn't define who he was as a person. At the end of the day, we still go home to a comfortable bed and (possibly) a nice meal. Being like Pierce meant that he had to live a double life. Could he ever do that? More importantly, Dan wondered why a person like Pierce would attempt explaining himself in the first place. Dan hated explaining himself.

"I heard you were in the platoon that seized the Aswad District a few months ago."

"We're Marines," Dan said. "The spearheads."

"I read your operation record down there. You're MARSOC material. Why didn't you ever apply to Force Recon?"

"I never knew I was."

Pierce chuckled to himself as Dan placed the pistol into a holster. "They're using you, you know. A man of your abilities who isn't recommended to SF reeks of something awful fishy."

"Who?"

A subtle grin appeared on his face.

"People with skeletons in their closets. Severed heads in their refrigerators. My kind of people," he said, emphasizing the last few words as the people he came from and not the people he admired. "We're nobody, you and I."

Dan sheathed the tactical knife and hooked it to the back of his belt which felt uncomfortably small. It has been awhile since he's worn civilian clothes.

"Heard about a guy once," Dan began speaking. "Taxi driver down in LA. Falls asleep during his lunch break on the night shift. Dies of heat stroke. For eight hours, his corpse is rested neatly in the driver's seat with the 'off duty' sign on display and pedestrians passing and going without any problems. Wasn't until dispatch called him at the end of his shift that they realized he was dead. He had a small funeral and was survived by some distant relative."

There was a noticeable pause between the two as Dan checked the ammunition on his pistol in silence, allowing the words to hang in the air for just awhile longer. He knew that Pierce understood. They both knew. When Nadine is gone to the States, she'll probably forget about him. She's competent enough anyway, and she'll find herself a nice man who won't abuse her and will turn out to be a great role-model for her kids. She will probably live and die beside many friends and family who matter to her. Then, he mentally cursed himself for the stupidity of handing her his number. It was a pipe dream. Dan had to understand what kind of world he was in, and he had to respect its boundaries. He had to tell her to forget about him, and he didn't want to explain himself either.

"No one knew he existed."

If he died, would anyone notice?

Mr. Pierce, a much older man who didn't quite seem like the type to settle down, gave Dan a nod, understanding exactly what he meant. Following the quick meeting, they split up and went their separate ways, with Pierce entering his vehicle and leaving first, and Dan tailing after. A strange feeling washed over him as he continued to the mission. To his curiosity, he was rather calm for an operation like this, even though he had never done one personally before.

* * *

The Russians didn't know shit. Neither did the Chinese.

Are you sure he doesn't know?

I'm positive. Look how clueless he is. Anything interesting happen?

No. He seems like he's ready to head out again.

Alright. Now's the time to watch him. Remember, if he knows anyone who's connected…

Yeah. I'll let you know.

By the way, did you see where he went earlier?

He went to the taxi company. I followed. He actually spoke to someone. Looked like fuzz from what I could see.

Who?

Don't know. Couldn't get a good look at her.

A woman, huh? If he mentions anything, listen carefully.

Yeah, I know.

We need to know.

I know that, too. And…he might actually turn out okay.

What's that supposed to mean?

I don't think we'll have to get rid of him by the end of this.

Are you losing your better judgment? This guy's a killer.

We're all killers.

You remember what he did.

I…he…I'm not sure if he's guilty.

We have absolute proof. Remember that part?

…

Still there?

Yeah, fine. I'll stick to the mission.

That's all there is.

* * *

"Finding the British woman was an awful lot easier," Dan Dreiberg stated as he typed away on his keyboard.

Her name was Sarah Hartford Price, a former MI6 operative who performed joint operations with the US Special Forces on multiple occasions. She was born in 1975 and trained in several espionage tactics, which probably explained why she could take down those El Diablo thugs so easily. And that extra blood…was it a thug who merely got away? Was it her own blood? The ammonia had screwed everything up, and if only the blood had been processed, Diana knew she would be that much closer to the real thing. This was obviously much deeper than she had perceived now. This was black operations stuff, and it was right in front of everyone's face. Whoever managed the operation certainly didn't care for much discretion, but then again, not many detectives can reach isolated Pentagon profiles either. It was only too bad that this profile had not been updated since 2007, which meant that she was most likely off-the-grid by now.

"So we can forget the two guys?" Lasko asked.

She bit her lip. "Tracking her would be a suitable start."

"I don't know about you," her father said, "but whoever supplied them has some pretty deep connections to the US military. If that 7.62 bullet is indeed from a military-grade rifle, then you two could be in some deep, deep crap."

"Who's _not_ confused around here?" Lasko inquired.

No one answered.

"O-kay."

Then, Lasko's cell started ringing, and he promptly answered, stepping away from the area to talk on the phone.

"To find them," Diana said, staring at the projection against the wall, "we just have to know exactly what they want and then lure them with it. They're obviously after something. Or someone."

It wasn't long before Lasko shut his phone and reentered the room with somewhat of a ghastly look on his face, though she wasn't paying attention.

"H-hey, Diana, you think we could talk?" he asked.

She was still in a state of thought. "Not now, Lasko."

"I really need your help with something."

"This is more important."

"Look…I—"

"_Jack_," she snapped at him, finally taking the time to look towards his direction. "I'm busy. Maybe your priorities aren't straight right now, but mine _are_, alright?"

It took him awhile, but eventually he failed to muster the strength to retort and instead nodded, exiting the door and picking up his cell phone once again, this time, ready to make a call instead. She paced around her old room, where the computer and projector had been set up. What the hell were these guys looking for? Who were they? What was the game here? She pondered for a few seconds longer. Aha! Perhaps they were looking for Rorschach! But the only flaw with that theory was that the Rorschach murders came only after the Protectors showed up on the scene. And even stranger, she received another call about thirty minutes ago that the cops had brought in an imposter Rorschach who was unbelievably deranged. The imposters added an even stranger dimension into the problem.

"I really wish I could be doing this down in the Owlstation right now."

Diana shushed her father while she continued reading Sarah's profile. "A certain stranger is _just_ outside the door, in case you didn't notice."

"Well, the guy _seems_ like he's an awful more misguided than he is, well…_evil_, as you described," Dreiberg emphasized. "Why don't you trust him?"

"Precisely _because_ he's misguided," she said. "Dad, he's done criminal things before."

"Why didn't you report him?"

When she digested that question, she came up short on words. "Uh, well…"

"Well?"

Diana shrugged. "Well…_well_."

"I think your problem has always been that you were great at too many things. You're kind of arrogant sometimes, hon. But in that kind of naïve way that no one can really blame you for. Kind of scares guys away. Like what you did a second ago. You can't just do that to people, especially in a job where people _listen_ to each other. It took me awhile to get used to Rorschach, too, but we got along greatly after awhile. Just be a bit more considerate."

"Hey, that's not true," she said. "I'm _very_ considerate. At times. Lasko probably just wanted to make a joke, or talk about how some bookie owes him money, or something."

"You never _considered_ that he may have something important to tell you?"

"I have. And usually I'm right."

"How considerate. Did you even consider turning him in for all the alleged 'bad shit' that he's done?"

She shook her head. "You just don't do that with other cops."

He raised an eyebrow.

"And _hell_-_oo_…haven't I told you about how indirectly criminal most of the department is? I mean, Dan told me that—" she stopped. "Oh."

Her father was confused, tilting his head just a bit at her sudden pause. "_Oh_? Who the hell is Dan? Is it me?"

When she recalled what Dan had told her, a thought had crossed her mind that she hadn't thought before. What the hell was _his_ role in this? Could he be much more than just someone she was trying to use to break the heroin case? From what it seemed, he was obviously smarter than what he normally came off as, especially when he made her rather uneasy at the café, recognizing that she looked different from her college persona. Diana shivered at the thought of him finding out her identity. He could be lying about his role at the taxi company, waiting for a detective like her to come along so he can inform his buddies and stage a house raid on her while she let her guard down. Bah! She probably already gave herself away with that 'I'm not a cop' suggestion that she so brilliantly told him. It was at times like these that she cursed her inexperience.

"Nothing," she said.

"Who is this Dan?"

She had looked up his records from the office before. Why not try looking _here_, where only some of the darkest secrets are kept?

"Look up a Sgt. Daniel Lee," she said. "You'll find him in the USMC records. Asian-American. About 5'10, 175 pounds."

Her father nodded. "Looking."

When Dreiberg pulled up the profile on Dan, she scooted in closer, finding some information that she couldn't have possibly found from public profiles alone, especially the information on what he did while he was on his tours.

"Close-quarters battle training, Israel," she read off while she browsed. "Krav Maga, breaching, clearing, small arms mastery. One year."

Her eyes skipped the rest of the items for that tour and ran over his next tour.

"Insurgent extermination, counterterrorism, and maritime warfare," she read. "Somalia. 164 confirmed kills. Eighteen months."

The record obviously didn't fit any normal Marine, especially one who was moved around so much. It almost felt surreal, these records. She moved on, though, and glanced at his third tour.

"Urban operations, psychological dependability, and singular efficiency," she said as she read some of the objectives. "Afghanistan. Ten months. Honorable discharge on April 17th, 2006."

"What an amazing record. It was well worth looking him up. Who is he again?" Dreiberg noted dryly.

"Taxi driver," she said, staring at his record with disbelief. "This stuff is _way_ beyond what infantry does. He should be in SF."

"Maybe _he's_ one of the Protectors, huh?"

"As of now, I wouldn't rule it out as a possibility. I mean, he did have an injury last time I saw him."

She paused for a second.

"That _is_ pretty strange that he injured himself around the same time as the killings," she muttered to herself.

"Like I said, maybe he's a Protector, too."

"No. The other two are at least six feet tall. He can't be one."

"Platform shoes. Rorschach used to wear them."

"And I'm sure he looked cute in them. If anything, the only connection that I have of Dan and the Protectors is that Dan works at the same taxi company that supplied those subsonic rounds to Sarah Price," she ran a hand through her hair in slight aggravation. "God, this would be so much simpler if I knew who the hell everyone was. I don't even have a motive. What's the motive? What are these guys looking for?"

Her father crossed his arms and let out a yawn. "Maybe Rorschach is a part of the Protectors."

"That wouldn't make sense. They clearly have it out for the guy, killing the impostors and—"

She paused again. Something just came to her mind. The El Diablo murder awhile ago suddenly sprang up, and she began connecting the dots together. She recalled forensics telling her that there were two different occasions that happened there: first, the murder of the Diablo lieutenants and second, the unknown blood spills marking the ground that seemed to lead into the alleyway across the street.

"Maybe that's why there were two appearances!" she said. Her father raised an eyebrow. "Maybe they were luring Rorschach this entire time by killing the Diablo lieutenants, therefore setting up the stage for our masked vigilante to show up and murder him. Or warn him. Or something."

"If they were looking for Rorschach to kill him, they'd have done it at the scene. Something screwy is going on between these two parties. The real story is probably much deeper than we might think," Lasko said as he stepped in, shutting his phone. "I have to go."

It seemed like he meant more than just leaving for the moment, but the thoughts of the case suddenly left her as her attention completely shifted to Lasko.

"What do you mean?" she looked up, the realization suddenly hitting her.

He gave her a warm smile. "I gotta go. Take care of a few things."

"Somehow I don't think this has to do with the usual."

"Not this time," he shook his head.

"When will you be back?"

The man gave off a light chuckle, turning around and heading for the stairs. "Oh, I'll be back before long."

There was a hint of somberness to his voice, and she couldn't catch on to what exactly he was feeling. She followed him down the stairs, watching him walk as if he was guilty of having taken walking down stairs for granted, for he walked slowly with weakness in his legs. Diana put a hand on his shoulder as he reached the front door.

"Something wrong?"

"No."

Lasko swung the door open and began to leave, but she grabbed his forearm to stop him, causing him to look over his shoulder.

"Don't go," she said, sensing something was terribly wrong. "Come on. Just…stay here and work with me a bit longer, okay?"

"I really can't," he shook his head.

Snow was getting into the house. It was snowing outside. There was also a car waiting for him. Why now, at the greatest moment of their case, did he have to leave her?

"Jack," she said, not believing the words that had just come out of her mouth. "This is _our_ case. You're needed here."

He turned to face her and put his hands on her shoulders, carefully, as if what he was doing was personally forbidden by him. She didn't care. Diana stared right into his eyes, having trouble understanding the sudden pain that had just washed over him.

"Look, I'll be back," he reassured, pulling her towards him.

In that quick instant, he closed in and pressed his lips against hers, freezing her still and nearly taking all her breath away to be carried out by the cold wind. When he backed away, she was still awestruck.

"I've never seen such clarity in your eyes before," he said. "You'll make a great detective, kid."

With that, he turned around and left, waving at the man in the car and getting in with him. She couldn't remember what happened next, only that she was still thinking of his kiss on her way up the stairs, all the way back into the room with Dan's information projected all over the wall. And, though she wasn't aware of it, she was smiling to herself.

* * *

It had been about three hours since Dan was gone. She was bored, and it was already dark outside. Nadine rested on his bed, her legs crossed over one another, smoking one of his cigarettes in the manner that a classy woman would. It was a gesture that she picked up from watching old movies with femme fatales and such. She stared at the ceiling and kept thinking about how life would be like when she returned home. She imagined there'd be much press, which somewhat made her sick because she never wanted to be in the news.

The door to the portable swung open and when she peeked up a bit, she saw Dan's fellow soldier, Sgt. Benitez, stumble in through the door sluggishly. He was drunk. Dan had said that his friend had been drinking for quite awhile now; something to do with family back home. She just ignored him, smoking her cigarette in peace.

"Hey! It's Danny's friend!" Benitez said with a slight burp at the end.

"Hi," she smiled nervously, waving at him.

He mumbled some Spanish under his breath and sat down on his bed, across the room. She could smell the alcohol from where she was.

"_Damn_, girl! You're lookin' fine as hell," he said.

All she could do was play along. "Thank you."

Benitez came over and sat on the opposite end of Dan's bed, leaning his head against the wall. "You know, I-I never thought Danny would get such a fine woman like you. I was beginning to suspect he was a fag or something, you know?"

She smiled again, acknowledging his statement, unsure of what to say.

"But I guess he's just trying to relieve his stress or something, know what I'm sayin'? He hasn't _had_ _any_ for, like, months. His girlfriend's a bitch and everything."

Nadine was going to say something, but he continued on anyway.

"Guess you're the relief, eh?" he said with a cackle.

She giggled. "That's funny."

"I need me some, too."

His hand immediately went in between her legs, causing her to immediately sit up and back away.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't fight."

She stood up and backed towards the opposite end of the room, her heart suddenly beating a hundred times faster. Benitez stood up from his fall, having trouble gaining balance, and gave her an aggressive stare. Frantically, Nadine tried to make it to the door, but he grabbed her and forcefully slammed her on the bed, getting on top of her to suppress any movement. He grabbed a bandanna from his pocket and insistently stuffed it into her mouth, silencing any of her screams or shouts for help. She tried kicking her way out, but her body was pinned and her legs were useless. After getting in between her legs, he began groping her, and she couldn't look into his eyes, bloodshot red just like his entire face. Benitez slapped her once to get her to stop squirming, putting an iron grip around her throat to weaken her system. The next slap nearly knocked her unconscious. The third ceased her movements. Her eyes were glazed with tears and the night would not come to her rescue.

They were alone now. Dan was nowhere in sight.

* * *

"You're going _tonight_?" Alex asked, standing in her pajamas. "You're insane."

"Loose ends," Rorschach said with a growly voice, fitting the face on. "Must tie them up."

"Where are you going?"

He had to go to the taxi company and have a talk with Johnson. Since he got the gun connections from that same workplace (Lenny), he figured that Johnson would have some more answers, about both the heroin and the weapons. But more importantly, he wanted to know if any detectives had visited earlier today, since he had met Diana at the coffee place. He had to try his luck somewhere, and the company was the only place he had on his mind at the moment. And he felt that he would find the right answers there.

Rorschach turned to look at her and shook his head. "Nowhere fun. Stay put."

She fixed the bottom of her tank top and gave him a worried glance, knowing that it was not in her position to question him so vehemently. It was getting her too worked up.

"You shouldn't do this," she said.

"And?"

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"I don't either," he grunted, putting his hands in his pockets. The taxi company wasn't too far from here, which was good since he didn't have his taxi anyway (due to injury leave). "Be seeing you."

"Wait."

He turned around. Alex walked up to him, her feet freezing against the cold floor. She stared at the patterns along his face, studying the intricate shapes, changing yet never blending together with the white. Worriedly, she placed a hand against his cheek, causing the shapes to fly around and convulse. He was actually very imposing in the outfit; not the kind of guy you wanted to meet in an alleyway, unless you were a good citizen. And yet, she also knew of the man underneath the mask, and she wanted to talk to _him_ rather than this false identity. Or was it a true one?

"Come back in one piece, alright?"

* * *

It was about ten in the evening when he came back from setting up the scene. The IED would set off in about half an hour, obliterating the entire back end of the bar and taking all the buyers with it. The ashes will scatter into the cold, bitter night of Afghanistan, the wind carrying it away into nothingness, and everything will be better. It had to be. He swung the bag over his shoulder and closed the door to the taxi cab, waving the taxi driver goodbye as he headed towards the processing area to get back on base. After a quick flash of ID, they allowed Dan back in and he began walking towards his end of the portables. It only took him a few steps before he heard someone's jogging come up from behind him.

"Dan!" shouted a feminine voice.

He turned around to face Pfc. Harrison, who seemed uneasy. "We moving out or something?"

"Something's happened."

"What?"

She took a few breaths to reassure herself.

"What is it, Martha?"

"It's about the girl," she said. "She's been…"

His eyes widened. "Did she run off?"

"Come on," Martha said. "Let's go to your portable. Nichols is already tending to her."

Dan nodded and they both went together. What the hell could possibly be happening? Did she hurt herself? Get a nervous breakdown? He moved past a few Humvees and continued towards his small portable that he shared with Benitez, who he was sure should be home by now. They didn't have much longer before they were back in action; this had better not be worse than it should be. When they circled the corner of the building, past the shrapnel-proof windows, Dan could see a faint light coming out from the inside. He went ahead of Martha and flew up the short set of steps to the door and opened it. Inside, Sergeant Nichols had just finished examining Nadine, and when Dan tossed his bag aside, the medic turned around and stood up.

"There doesn't seem to be any vaginal injuries."

"What happened?"

The medic seemed to have trouble picking out his words, but after a moment, came out direct. "She was raped."

Nadine was on the bed, her back turned towards everyone else in the room. He could hear her soft sobs through the blanket she clinched in her hands.

"Who did it?" Dan asked almost immediately.

"She wouldn't tell me. She's just been here, silent and all."

Almost instantly, he could come up with a list of guys on the base who would try to grab a piece of her.

"I think we need some time alone," Dan said to the medic. Nichols immediately nodded and exited the room with Harrison.

When the door behind them shut, he came to her, but didn't kneel down to check on her; there was an imposing, brooding aura that radiated from him. Dan had no pressing intentions to comfort Nadine, instead clenching his fists and looking upon the weakened girl with a sense of pity.

"Who did this?" he asked curtly, his voice as abrupt as she's ever heard him.

She sniffed and refrained from answering.

"Tell me who did this," he then said with a commanding voice.

After waiting for awhile for a response, he began looking around the room, searching for things that shouldn't be there. Perhaps there was some evidence. Almost instantly, when he caught the smell of alcohol emanating from Benitez's bed, he went over and searched around. Dan ruffled through the man's blanket and noticed his jacket fall over to the side. He picked it up and the strong stench of Hennessey made him pull away. The bastard was here before. This was all the information he needed. Dan threw the jacket down and went to his backpack, unzipping it and bringing out his chest holster. He buckled the holster onto him and checked the Sig hanging from the sleeve, re-screwing the suppressor on the tip with dark fury in his eyes. Lastly, he slipped on a hoody and went for the door without saying goodbye to Nadine. When he was halfway out, she sat up to see where he was going, but he ignored her sudden gesture, continuing off into the night. The bastard was probably still at the club.

Dan was about to enter the parking lot to call up a cab, but noticed a familiar face at the entrance. Mr. Pierce was chatting with the gate guard, a young female who looked like she just got out of Army basic training. As he approached the man, he cleared his throat and removed his hood. Pierce turned to face him and granted a smirk.

"Didn't know you were still in town," Dan said.

"Left my sunglasses. Need something?"

"A ride."

With a chuckle, the older man agreed, gesturing towards the parking lot. "Come on."

He was surprised that Pierce would help him so readily. Nonetheless, Dan went to the lot and entered the vehicle with the man after he had said goodbye to the young lady at the gate. Pierce started up the engine and placed his hands on the wheel, glancing over at Dan.

"Where to?"

"The club."

"_The_ club?"

"Yeah."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Not to discourage you or anything, but didn't you drop off a present for the party already?"

"Drive the fucking car," Dan hissed.

Pierce, his light attitude vanishing, nodded. "As you wish."

The ride was quiet. Pierce neither asked questions nor made any opposing remarks, which somewhat put Dan's mind at ease. His blood pumped pure vengeance and his mind did not vacillate in knowing what he had to do. How long had he and Benitez known each other? How many times were they dispatched on the field together? It seemed that Dan was losing his social contacts one by one: his mother then his girlfriend and now Benitez. And, most strangely, he knew he should be much more miserable than this. There was no despair or sense of loss. In many places, he felt that he wasn't feeling much at all, and at given times, only elicited the emotions he believed were socially appropriate, and that wasn't often. Dan also realized that he had stopped talking to others; he couldn't remember the last time he had a drink with Harrison, Nichols, and Benitez. He began having trouble empathizing with others, as well, for he was often too busy to care about other people's problems. Everything seemed to halt, and Dan just closed in.

Benitez was such a bastard. Dan reconsidered putting a bullet through the man's head, because he could be put in front a firing squad. Then again, who would notice? Who sees him? Dan shook his thoughts away. That asshole was going to pay, one way or the other. Before that, though, Dan would make him drop to his knees and beg for mercy, which he would so pleasurably deny. Then the last thing Benitez will see is the light at the end of the short tunnel that is his gun barrel.

"We're there," Pierce stopped the vehicle. "Look, I'll be about a block away, alright?"

"Whatever."

Dan stepped out and excused himself past the short line of people waiting to get into the small dance area, heading towards the restaurant side and cutting through the parking lot. He noticed that the car full of explosives was still there, the back end sagging just slightly since a controlled amount was packed in the trunk. Other vehicles were present, too, indicating that there were at least a few key buyers who would get caught in the explosion, which would bring about distrust in the slave market in this part of the city. Turning a left, he sidestepped the back door and peered through the small window to see if Benitez was still there getting hammered out of his mind. Dan spotted him stumbling towards the bathroom, a bottle of Hennessey in one hand and the woman in the other, his hand briefly reaching down to grab her buttocks. They were headed for the back, probably. Then, for some reason, he thought he saw Nadine, but realized it was just some woman at the bar. They were all looking alike to him. Victims. Dan turned towards the backdoor and returned that direction.

"Hey, you," a voice suddenly said as Dan approached. "What you doing here?"

Security. He continued toward the back door, even though the man had a gun.

"Sorry. Got lost."

The security guard pointed a cheap pistol at him. "Get out of here."

Dan walked forward with his hands up, heading towards the exit, but as soon as he was close enough, he moved in and grabbed the gun from the guard, removing it with a direct, forceful jerk that broke the man's trigger finger. With the pistol in his hand now, Dan landed a quick strike to his throat and watched him collapse into unconsciousness. After tossing the gun into a nearby trash bin, he came back and snatched the keys from the guard's pockets and opened the backdoor for himself, sneaking in quietly. He pulled out his suppressed P226 and stalked down the narrow hallway, searching for any signs of which of the fairly limited rooms Benitez and his company would be located in. Dan then felt the faint smell of alcohol tickle his nose and he followed it towards the appropriate room. While he traveled, something else struck him odd. Did no one here care that Nadine was gone? Getting a woman like her wouldn't necessarily be common, but Dan felt something strange stirring in his stomach when he realized just how clueless these people seemed to be. Shouldn't his rescuing Nadine be some sort of sign for the poor buyers who would be blown to bits later? A warning, perhaps? No. Maybe that'd be bad for business.

Locating Benitez's door killed the rest of Dan's thoughts as he stacked up on the side of the door like it was a CQB exercise. When he was ready, he opened the door and pointed the gun, assessing his surroundings as quickly as possible. There were no immediate threats. Benitez was lying down on the bed and the woman was on top of him, halfway through unzipping his pants with the shoulder of her skimpy dress fallen to the side, exposing her breast. How unsavory. The two turned towards Dan and separated from each other.

"_Get out_," Dan ordered in Arabic. "_Don't come back_."

Frightened, the local girl who was probably only about a year younger than Nadine stood up and nodded, rushing out the door and escaping off to God knows where. It was none of his concern. Dan shut the door behind him and kept his gun pointed at Benitez.

"Aw, what the hell was _that_ for?" Benitez said with a rather deep slur. "I was just getting ready and—"

"I know what you did," Dan said.

A shamelessly guilty expression swept across his comrade's face. "Yeah? And?"

"Why?"

"Why not, man?" Benitez cackled. "You been getting a piece for yourself. I wanted mine. What the fuck's so wrong with that?"

If he even had to ask, then Dan should have just shot him upon entering the door.

"You gonna kill me, Danny boy?" Benitez asked.

"I was considering it. Based on how you acted when I entered."

"How'm I doing?"

"You want it in the head or the sternum?" Dan asked.

The man sat on the bed, leaning against the back wall and laughed, his voice booming over the muffled music from the other side of the club. When Dan felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, he realized that he only had about five to ten minutes left before the IED went off. The alarm turned off after a few moments. There was very little time.

"What do I have to do to get you to spare me, eh? Or forgive me, or whatever."

"I'm not here to forgive," Dan said. "I'm here to punish."

Benitez shook his head with bewilderment. "What the fuck, Danny, she's just a fucking whore. Get over yourself. She was a good piece of ass, and I'm very thankful you left her to me. It means that you don't mind sharing, that's all. Just put that fucking gun away and we can make shit normal again, man. You don't have to make this shit any worse than it already is."

Dan shrugged. "At least you'll die honest."

"I don't believe this shit. You know, someone once told me that there were no heroics out here in the Middle East. Out here, shit happens, and we can't do shit about it or anything. No nobility, no vigilance. All we'll ever find out here is a bunch of sand, blood, and people who will die. Everything's a big joke, remember that?"

"I see you're living up to that complete bullshit. I hope whoever told you that died alone."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Benitez said. "It was _you_!"

Maybe Daniel Lee died long ago and never came back from the scorching deserts of the Middle East, where he died with that little girl, tears down his face, screaming in his head for his mother, closing his eyes.

For that moment, Dan's eyes flickered, showing the first signs of hesitation. Did he ever carry such a sloppy way of life? Even though Benitez was drunk, Dan had a feeling that he wasn't lying. Nonetheless, Benitez had to pay, and Dan's focus returned to him, raising the gun up to his comrade's face.

"You _really_ want this blood on your hands, Danny? Eh?" the man questioned with a broken voice. "You really want to go through with this?"

Dan, too, questioned himself whether it was really worth it. He questioned himself quite a bit over the course of the day, on things such as whether he would contact Nadine when she got back stateside or not. Could he live with murdering someone he had known since basic training? Could he live without Nadine, who was the only person now that he considered having a rather close relationship with? He wondered if any of it truly mattered. No one out there would respond to this act of justice. No one cared. Perhaps the old Dan was right; there was nothing out here and he could only do things for himself. Maybe he can return stateside one day and find Nadine waiting for him, go to college, and raise a family one day. Maybe things will change. Maybe he can start over. To find a beacon of hope such as Nadine was not just good luck, but it was a blessing. If there was a God, was this his answer?

Then, he realized that he only had about a minute or two left. He had to do something. He didn't want to kill Benitez, but justice will be delivered. Dan will make sure of that.

"You have two minutes to get out," he said, sliding the gun back into his chest holster.

He turned around and left Benitez there. Dan exited the room with a strange sensation; he wanted to meet up with Nadine more than anything else right now and hold her in his arms, even if he hadn't known her for that long. It just felt right. He took a breath and walked down the hallway towards the exit, knowing that he only had another minute to spare; he'd be well out of range by the time the time went up, though, so he marched hastily, but comfortably. Upon exiting the door, he began jogging past the parking lot, knowing that the explosives were going to go off at any moment. A safe distance would be a good eighty meters or so. Thirty seconds left.

Thirty seconds to freedom.

He spotted Pierce's car at an already safe distance and didn't slow down. The faster they left, the faster he could get back to her.

Dan found himself smiling. He wondered if he could get used to this new feeling. Nadine. Hope. With the start of an explosion.

And right then, at his happiest moment in a long time, something stopped him in his tracks.

Dan almost shut it out at first, thinking it was just voices in his head calling out to him from recent memories. But it was actually Nadine's voice.

"Dan!"

After crossing the street and into an abandoned lot where Pierce was parked, he turned around and noticed her standing far away from him. So far away.

Had she followed him? Took a cab, perhaps? It didn't matter. She was here, now, and it froze his nerve endings shut. His mouth was wide open as she jogged after him, just exiting the back parking lot of the club.

Somehow, things just never turn out the way you want them to.

When the vehicle erupted in an explosion of dirt and massive force, the shockwaves obliterated the entire back end of the club, shredding everyone in that vicinity to pieces. Cars flipped over and a small crater formed in the middle of the explosion. The intense draft of dirt and dust washed over him as he stood there, unable to move, watching his little moment of hope scatter into so many pieces that it became nonexistent.

There were shouts and screams, of course, for those who were not directly in the path of the explosion, but he couldn't hear them, not even Pierce's stifled yell as he came in and grabbed his shoulder, telling him to get in the car.

A piece of paper was blown to his feet before he left, and as he kneeled down to pick it up, he realized that it was, in fact, a business card of some sort which was torn by the explosion. He noticed pieces of a phone number written on the back of the card, and when he flipped it around, he could only read the significant bit of the batting cages that the card represented.

_STRIKE TWO_

And he fell over the edge.


	13. Veidt Street Station

**I guess I really just can't hit those damn deadlines, right? Heh. Sorry I took so long, guys. Life's just been pulling me towards many different places other than the computer (to write) for the past eight weeks, so if you'll forgive me, I would be grateful. The good thing is that this chapter is also very lengthy, so don't get all angry and weepy that you haven't seen my Rorschach for quite some time.**

**This chapter is more about forgiveness, surprisingly, than anything else, and sets us up for the climax in the next chapter. It's not a really tricky chapter and is rather straightforward, but there's a ton of emotional weight here. So read and enjoy.**

**Chapter 13: Veidt Street Station**

They always say that lonely hearts meet at Veidt Street Station.

Is that some kind of poetry you read?

No. Just something I heard.

Oh.

You calling because you miss me or something?

No. Wanted to let you know that I'm meeting him there at VSS. Just spoke with the big man again. He's getting impatient. Thought his smart ass would be able to figure this out for himself by now. The imposters really screwed everything up for him. Came out of nowhere.

If he's getting _that_ anal, then I'll see if I can't sneak into Dan's apartment later.

You said he knew nothing.

I'm still convinced that he doesn't. So were you.

I know, but that's subject to change. Sarah was surprised, too, when she shoved him off the other night. She was so convinced that he knew…

Anyway, where the hell is that guy hiding? A few years after the trials are over then he disappears off the grid…

Just see if you can do something from where you are.

Even when I watch Dan do everything, be it taking out the trash or heating up a quick meal, he still doesn't know…

Your cousin is still dead because of him.

Yeah.

Look, don't think about it too much. I have to go meet the cop in like an hour. Apparently, he's got something that could keep the trail hot. It's a long ride to VSS. Sarah's got my back on this one.

Alright. I shouldn't disturb you.

Don't get soft. Goodbye.

* * *

Rorschach screwed the suppressor on the modified 1911 pistol with the Comedian's smiley face ingrained onto the handle. No mistakes this time. He wanted to be ready in case he was ambushed again. The taxi company was rusty and desolate, as if those who used to work here were long gone and it was now being used as a haven for druggies. Johnson practically lived there, since he managed the drivers most of the time, but most were on vacation leave until New Years. The fat man will more than likely speak to him if coerced the right way.

As he rounded the curb and located the garage, he pulled his collars up a bit higher to keep himself warm in this dead winter night. A mild blizzard was brewing up. The only people out on this side of the jungle were whores and dealers; the usual wildlife. Some of them moved out of the way as he walked by. Some of them stared. Either way, there was a rising fear whenever he was seen, and he wasn't sure if this was something to enjoy or not. Dan's current distractions have somewhat bled into the Rorschach persona, which was beginning to irritate him. Nonetheless, he tried his best to keep his priorities arranged correctly when he put on the face.

Arriving at the door, Rorschach took a peek underneath to see if there was any light coming out from underneath, his breaths made visible by streetlights nearby. The ink blots flowed smoothly, as this was just a minor problem. He was thankful, too, that the door wasn't rigged with any new Veidt Secure alarm systems, since the city's budget had been down to hell for the past few years and installations in this sector would yield no benefits. Rorschach took out a set of lockpicks and subsequently dug in, understanding that picking locks was determined not just by skill but also by patience. When he unlocked the door, he took a peek inside. Nobody. All the lights were out except for the ones in Johnson's office. Stealthily, Rorschach snuck in through the door and hid amidst the shadows in the garage, sneaking his way towards the boss's office with the 1911 in his hand.

When he peered in through the window to see what Johnson was doing, he noticed that the man was alone, which was a plus, since it indicated that things weren't about to go to hell on his first night back. So far, at least. Rorschach scooted over to the door and gripped the handle, but after a moment's consideration, released it. He needed a more surprising plan of attack. He could get Johnson to come out of the office and attack him in the shadows, sure, but that was too obvious. Before too long, Rorschach scoffed to himself and moved to stand a meter's distance away from the door. Aggressively, he kicked open the glass door, catching the fat man by surprise. Rorschach sped in with his handgun held up, aiming it right at Johnson, who spilled his drink all over his shirt.

"What the fu—"

Immediately, Rorschach whipped Johnson across the face with the butt of his pistol, causing the man to fall out of his chair and tumble to the ground. There was a chilling moment as he glared at Johnson with the ink blots writhing with frightening patterns. Then, Rorschach flipped his desk over, scattering all the (undone) paperwork, and watched him crawl away in fear. With the shove of his boot, Rorschach slammed him into one of the filing cabinets, hearing a faint whimper as Johnson's back took the hit unprepared. Rorschach stood above him, the small light above making him an invincible silhouette and he raised the suppressed pistol to Johnson's face. His cheek was already red. Going to be purple in a few minutes.

"The Protectors," Rorschach growled with feral aggression. "Give me a name."

"I don't know anyth—"

Rorschach squeezed the trigger and fired a round right next to Johnson's ear, the bullet penetrating the cheap polished wood and blowing splinters and dust out into the air.

"Next one hits your leg," he said. "It's not like the movies. Shoot you in the leg, sever your femoral artery. Retracts into your pelvis. Bleeding never stops. You die slow."

With those words, Johnson shivered and a pool of dampness spread from the zipper of his pants.

"Price!" he said. "Alright? That bitch's name is Price! The black lady!"

"Hurm…how do you know this?"

"Th-they…" he swallowed. "…they'll kill me."

Rorschach growled. "And I _won't_?"

He fired a round into Johnson's kneecap, the bullet shattering the joint completely with bits of blood splattering on the floor.

"OH MY GOD!" Johnson shrieked, gripping his thigh.

"ANSWER ME!" Rorschach roared, the ink blots freezing into one rigid structure.

"DELAHUNT! Delahunt, alright?" Johnson said with whimpers. "I worked under him, and he cut a deal with them! I just supplied the bitch with some bullets, alright? They're su…supposed to be high up or some shit. I never really bothered to find out!"

Rorschach grunted. "_Yes you did_."

"They're government," the man cried with agony. "Government, okay? She's some kind of former secret agent with Britain or something. Some James Bond shit. The other two, the Gladiator guy and the bigger one…they're CIA. They're in town because they are looking for some…guy! Delahunt was supposed to help them find him! That's all I know! I swear, on my mother's grave!"

It couldn't have been him. Otherwise they'd have killed him at the Diablo scene.

"Where can I find them?"

"Th-they're supposed to be meeting with some cop tonight."

"Who?"

"Detective Jack Lasko," he groaned. "I told him to meet at the place when I saw him earlier this morning."

"Visited this morning?"

Lasko was probably the detective who worked with Diana.

"Yeah! He was looking for you. Said you've been killing the right guys around town."

Rorschach snarled. "Why him?"

"He's gonna be a rat," Johnson said. "Going to cut a deal with them, too. He owed Mickey Delahunt's bookies fifty G's in solid cash after screwing up in Jersey, and he contacted the Protectors recently. He had been looking for leads into the Rorschach case, then stumbled onto this Protector thing…and…he's going to give them something they haven't heard before. That's what he told me. Something about his partner."

"Where are they meeting?"

"East Veidt Street Station. Forty-five minutes."

VSS wasn't that far away. If he walked there, he might make it in time to find a vantage point and eavesdrop the meeting. And maybe take out the Protector. Rorschach couldn't waste any more time. If this snake of a cop was Diana's partner, then perhaps he would reveal information about Diana that would endanger her or her family. He hoped that this wouldn't be the case.

"Call the cops," Rorschach said, pointing towards his wound. "Tell them a ghost did it."

He fixed his fedora and put the gun back into his holster, turning around and leaving Johnson in his puddle of urine and blood squirming for the telephone. He shoved the door open and disappeared into the darkness of the garage, and passed through the door to the outside. Fixing his scarf, Rorschach faced the frigid conditions that glazed New York in ice and soldiered on into the abyss, the clock already past midnight.

_Rorschach's Journal_

_December 29th__2009_

_Lonely hearts meet at Veidt Street Station. A place of bittersweet sorrows._

_Never visited the place much. Bears the stench of weathered, rusted metal mixed with the faint hint of crack pipes wasted away into the gutter. East side the worst. Deserted buildings painted with the blood of bums and dealers and innocent children, trash cans stuffed with whimpering babies left to rot under the cold, unforgiving sky, lampposts flooding the streets to guide along the forgotten concrete river straight into Hell's Gate. Might see Charon if I'm lucky._

_Not writing much tonight. Haven't been writing much lately. No time to think. Must act. Personal feelings becoming a nuisance; an unnecessary paperweight. Might not write much anymore. Wallowing down to account personal issues is for the weak. Have to get to the bottom of this. Protectors looking for someone. If not me, then who? Must investigate further. So much to do, so little time._

"Once again, I'm…so very sorry, Dan," the man said.

Sergeant Lee sat in the chair staring past the dirty glass window of Bronstein's office with his arms crossed. He hadn't spoken since escaping the scene at the club. When Pierce had dropped him off back at base, he didn't even acknowledge his fellow soldiers. Instead, he walked straight to his portable like a mindless zombie and sat on the bed (that still held Nadine's scent) until he fell asleep.

They were just about to wrap up the debriefing.

"Still, you should know that it was not your fault. Stuff like this…it happens. My superior, Darian Alexander, is sending you home early, too. I believe you have a family that needs you, and a girlfriend waiting stateside."

Both Nadine and Benitez were dead. It was still sinking in, somewhat.

"The death of Sergeant Benitez will be considered a loss due to a terrorist IED. No one will know it was you."

Bronstein put out his cigar and took a swig from the brandy on the table. Plenty of men and women died in the explosion; none of them innocent, according to Bronstein. Out here, who was innocent anyway?

"You've proved yourself to be able to do what's necessary. It is no doubt that you are capable of doing terrifying things, more so than what your comrades were willing to do. Going the extra mile has proven your worthiness, Sergeant, even if Benitez was lost in the process."

With the mentioning of Benitez, the man's voice sunk low.

Dan uncrossed his arms and stared right through Bronstein. "I was going to kill him."

"But you didn't," Bronstein said, somehow disappointed. "If what you told me was true, then the bastard deserved it, didn't he? Why didn't you kill him?"

He was uneasy at that question; he second-guessed himself again, unsure if whether what he did was right or wrong; unsure if right or wrong even mattered.

"I…don't know."

"It's not like you to hesitate."

"What does it matter if I personally killed him or not? He's dead."

"This conflict was a test of absolute judgment, and to operate cleanly, to get things done, you have to judge absolutely."

"My judgment was limited to the bounds of the mission. That's it."

"But in today's battlefield, much more is required than just a door-kicking, hooah-shouting toy soldier or some cold, calculated elusive agent. We are building independent operators who lead by example with supreme moral attitudes. They need to be dependable psychologically and morally and this lapse in clear judgment is somewhat of a flaw in this exercise, wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't know," Dan said. "Benitez had nothing to do with this mission. He wasn't included as a factor. I couldn't have foreseen this."

Now he was self-reasoning. Dan had trouble trying to justify himself; rationalizing his failures was one thing he had hated all his life, and he absolutely despised the situations that called for his excuses.

"When you're out there in the real world, you can't foresee anything," Bronstein declared, raising his voice. "You have to have the mental clarity to deal with whatever the unpredictable throws at you; to wade in the bullshit of chaos and emerge victorious out the other end."

"What is this?" Dan suddenly inquired.

"This is the world, soldier. If you don't have the stomach to make clearer decisions, then you aren't fit to serve under Mr. Alexander and me."

He wasn't being sent back home as consolation. It was punishment.

"I don't care about serving you or Mr. Alexander," Dan said. "I want to get back to my company."

"No. You will be leaving early, Sergeant," Bronstein asserted. "Your active duty is over, as well. You can wait until your contract nears its end and then renegotiate. You did your job here, and that's all you could have done. And, despite my personal feelings on the matter, you were more than adequate enough to handle any mission that we could have thrown at you. But you're not what we're looking for."

He couldn't fathom why this mission was treated like a failure even though all of the objectives were met. Then again, he wasn't feeling too good anyway since he had lost Nadine in the explosion, too.

"This exercise is over. You're dismissed."

Before Dan could speak, the two security guards had already opened the door to show him out. Bronstein was unusually disappointed even though the objectives were clearly met. However, it mattered little now that he was being sent home, and Dan's thoughts suddenly shifted towards the trip back home, and especially what he was going to do once he got back.

He would later hate recalling this moment in his life. Later on, it would feel like someone else had stepped out of the airplane at JFK, and someone else had taken the reins. There was a shiver as he shut the door to Bronstein's temporary office, and while he headed down the dark corridor to return to base, he couldn't help but realize how cold it was. The corridor felt long, endless. It'd be awhile before he reached the exit.

Following, he would (officially) lose his girlfriend. Get the taxi job. Spend lonely years in New York. Wear the mask.

* * *

"I don't know why he left, dad," she said.

Her father turned off the projector after she finished taking down notes and sat back down in his chair. It was getting late.

"No deductions, detective?" her father asked. "No theories on why he's gone? I thought you knew everything."

"Very funny."

Dan Dreiberg chuckled softly and unplugged the projector, getting ready to put it away, yet at the same time, he was paying close attention to how his daughter was feeling. It was probably the first time he had seen her a bit more understanding about things. The trademark enduring, unforgiving spirit that Diana expressed had hit a stump. For once, he could see the concern in her eyes for her peers, a trait that had seemed to vanish while in college. The fierce determination in her was not always a welcoming trait. It kept her away from the family for long periods at a time.

"I'm sorry, dad," she said after a long moment of silence.

"About what?"

"I should have listened," she answered. "About consideration. I should have listened."

She couldn't remember one moment where she showed any kindness or respect to him out of her own goodness. Lasko was a bad cop, though. He takes money. He does drugs. He probably even deals them from time to time. Jack Lasko was always looking out for his own skin, and no one else's. But she couldn't understand why she was suddenly feeling so sorry for such a pathetic man.

"Well? Where do you think he's gone to?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"You think something's going to happen to him?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know. I certainly hope not."

"You should probably go find him, then."

"Dad," Diana suddenly asked. "Will I be okay?"

The feeling of helplessness and insecurity began to rise; she hated feeling like this, often repressing most of her emotional responses with doing more work. In many ways, she was considered a workaholic. Her father reached for her hand and held it tight in his. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes were beginning to water up.

"Diana," he started. "Your mother brought you into this world, and we raised you to be the best that you could be. But from the start, I always knew that you'd always be able to take care of yourself. You are independent, smart, and strong-willed—much more than I could ever be—and you've never had trouble figuring things out for yourself. You'll be just fine, hon."

He pulled her in and embraced her with a slight sniffle, knowing that he could be a bit melodramatic at times like these.

"Thanks, dad."

"I know you'll be able to handle anything that's thrown at you," he told her. "Go out there and find Jack, and solve this thing."

When she let him go, she considered the places where Lasko could be, but ultimately, was blank on the location. Her dad grabbed the projector and stepped out of the room to put it back in a nearby closet. There were no hunches as to where Lasko was; no predictions or guesses. Diana also didn't know about him much beyond his professional persona, which slipped every now and then to reveal his greedy, materialistic side. And yet, she felt so sure that the man underneath those masks was someone she could understand and trust. Lasko was a lot like all of us. So, she thought, where would a lonely heart like his go?

The only person she could think of after that brief moment was Johnson, who Lasko claimed to have known. Lasko also mentioned that he owed money to the man Johnson worked for. So, Johnson would seem like a logical start. She checked her watch, and noticed that it was already midnight; if Lasko was meeting with someone, it would be sometime soon, so she'd have to get moving.

"Dad, I have to go."

"I know."

She smiled at her father and marched down the stairs, realizing that she was going to follow Lasko into some form of hell, and knowing that she could be in danger. Despite this, though, she took a breath and continued.

* * *

The fedora cast a shadow over his face as light snow blew past him in the unforgiving wind, disappearing. Veidt Street Station was an elevated railway system that snaked through the jungle that was New East, the hillside rebuilt after the 1985 catastrophe. He spotted Detective Lasko walking underneath the steel structure that had icicles forming beneath it, the wind howling softly as it broke against it. Only the streetlights gave off a dim animation to Veidt Street. Lasko looked like the kind of cop that would leech on the public for a buck or two; the scruffy five o'clock, the light brown hair short, but gelled back for a somewhat professional look, the exhausted, rugged look on his face. As Lasko lit his cigarette in the distance, his hazel eyes were reflected in the darkness. Rorschach could tell that there used to be some life in those eyes, eager and willing to do what was necessary to bring justice to the streets; a young man who sought adventure and fulfillment and love, but now a case of broken dreams and alcohol and drug abuse. Those eyes were now glazed over. The once respectable child was now a lonely man, detached from those around him and from himself, drifting along as life stood still. Lasko was a wounded animal. And sometimes you had to put them down to ease their suffering.

Rorschach slid back into the dark alleyway, waiting for Lasko's contact to arrive. If it was one of the Protectors, then he was in luck. At his feet, a newspaper blew in from somewhere, and while he attempted to shake it off, he noticed the front page and decided to snatch it for reading instead.

The article was on the Protectors, and the mania they've caused in this city. While their appearance has slowed down the flow of crime (that some people still have trouble accepting), the death rates of gangsters have also gone up, the biggest of them being Delahunt, who was apparently suspected to have connections to a state senator, but also the Diablo lieutenants, high-ranking members of the Russians, the Triads, and as well as the Irish. Rorschach didn't remember operating on the latter half of those mentioned. It also stated the immense fear brought on by the return of Rorschach (to which the ink blots twisted satisfactorily) but also the capture and death of Rorschach impersonators. To this, he was confused. He hadn't paid attention to any news ever since he donned the face, and now it nearly seemed that there was a lot going on that he didn't know about. There was a list of names of people who wore Rorschach costumes who turned up dead or arrested by the cops. How the hell could these people be Rorschach, too?

He took another moment to process the information.

How come he didn't find out? How come he didn't know?

The article began mentioning the correlations between the Protectors and the dead/captured Rorschach impersonators, and their separate wars on crime, as well as each other. Each other? The article also acknowledged that the Protectors were so elusive that no one really knew much about them, and whoever did seemed to end up dead or missing. Then there was a short list of missing persons within the last few days, the bunch of them being managers of transportation services, delivery companies, et cetera. The key correlation here was the transportation part. These were services that went around New York. He suddenly understood that whatever was happening with the Protectors, it probably also had to do with Rorschach. Perhaps the sudden appearance of these imposters (dated at around the time he found the journal) was the reason why they didn't kill him. Or was there some other reason? The more he thought about it, the more frustrating it became. Someone out there knows what's going on, and that someone is probably laughing at this moment.

Rorschach crumpled the newspaper and tossed it aside, noticing a dark silhouette invade the space around Lasko. A large, bulky figure closed in and then they seemed like two scheming goblins chattering into the night. He could hear soft chattering drowned in the wind. Silently, he drew closer, shading himself in the alleys and behind vehicles, hiding from the light.

_The Sarge let out a grunt. "You weren't tailed?"_

_Lasko cuddled in his jacket. "I'm a cop."_

_"Then what do you have?"_

_"Now, before I talk, you're sure you guys got my back?"_

_The larger man crossed his arms, unfazed by the chill. "You can consider it done. You'll have government resources to protect you, unofficially. Also, when we find what we need, you'll have to assist us in bringing New York back to order. Whatever we acquire until then is also yours. Now, we discussed about you having something important. What?"_

Rorschach crouched below a sedan, his presence swallowed up by the night. The two were traveling up the stairs into the station; were they planning to board the railway? If they were, then he'd have to catch up quickly. With haste, he crossed the street as they ascended the first flight of stairs, keeping his footsteps silent. He grabbed the 1911 from its holster and waited for them to reach the top. No one could suspect him as he looked like a few of the other pedestrians making their ways out this time of the night.

_"It happened the other day," Lasko said. "I was out talking with Johnson. My partner was at a café as I came back. Saw the taxi driver; the same one that she had been talking about. The descriptions you guys gave me about one of your Rorschach's fit the profile for this guy. I just never figured it to be my partner's former case, you know?"_

_"Case?"_

_"The heroin case she was assigned to. She was supposed to talk to this guy so she could break into Delahunt's heroin ring. Shit didn't quite seem right."_

_"Taxi driver. Daniel Lee."_

_"Yeah. That guy. Before I left her house, my partner found his profile in the CIA records. Looks like they did some work on him."_

_"She had access to confidential records?"_

_"Yeah. Her father, you know. Maybe some sort of former CIA employee or something."_

_"His name?"_

_"Samuel Hollis."_

_The other man's voice was so monotonous._

_"I'll look into it."_

They finally reached the top and waited for the train, and he slowly followed them up the stairs, watching as they continued their conversation down to the end of the platform, past a vending machine. No one else was up there with them. Rorschach was suspicious. If these people were exactly who Johnson said they were, then he'd have to suspect the worst, no matter how ridiculous it may be. He chose his steps carefully, making sure that he was not to be seen or heard. He caught on to some of their conversation earlier, and wondered why the Protectors would suddenly find interest in Diana's family. When he thought a bit longer, he realized that they could discover the identities of Nite Owl and Silk Spectre. Her parents. Maybe this was all they needed to hear. Lasko wasn't going to last much longer, Rorschach thought. They'll get rid of him sooner or later.

_"What else do you have?"_

_"There might be a connection between Diana and this Dan character. I've never met him, and she mentioned that he got injured at the time of the Rorschach attacks."_

_"Was it an arm injury?"_

_"She didn't say."_

_Lasko suddenly had the feeling that he was selling Diana away, and paused a moment to contemplate. It was noticeable enough that the Sarge shot him an odd glance._

_"You're uncomfortable."_

_"No," Lasko shook his head. "In any case, Detective Hollis is probably just in over her head. I know her. She's pursuing this thing like a damn crusade."_

_"Then you have nothing else to offer?"_

_The voice was so cold and the line was delivered so bluntly that Lasko felt a chill go up his spine._

_Lasko shook his head. "That's it. That's all I've got. Diana's daddy."_

The Sarge gave him a nod, enough to be confident that it was all they needed. Rorschach reached the platform and snatched a newspaper from the trash can nearby, opening it in front of him since the platform was fairly well-lit. There'd be no hiding here if they turned around. He'd still try his best to be quiet to make sure they didn't notice him. At the corner of his eye, he could see the train pulling in from far away. Probably another minute or so.

"That's good," the Sarge said. As Rorschach pulled in closer, he finally realized what a large man this guy was. He could probably bench press over four hundred pounds. A close-quarters confrontation would not be recommended.

But Rorschach didn't care how big the other guy was. There was always a way to take him down. He was awfully close now.

"You've done good, Jackie," he finished, pulling his hand out of his jacket pocket, revealing a small 9mm pistol with a suppressor attached. In this weather, there'd virtually be no sound to hear if that thing went off. "You did real good."

Lasko was frozen. Wasn't the information about Diana something that would be a breakthrough for them, whatever it was they were looking for? They haven't even looked towards Diana's direction, and now he was going to die for it. In a way, Lasko detected the Sarge's bluff. He knew this information was vital.

"W-wait…" he replied, too shocked to mention anything about the gun.

Rorschach immediately dropped the newspaper and aimed his 1911 at the Sarge's elbow and pulled the trigger to disable him. He could be useful for questioning. The bullet went right through, shattering the joint and causing him to drop the suppressed 9mm pistol, a Beretta with the serials scratched off. Lasko flinched backwards and watched the two confront each other on the platform. The Sarge seemed immune to pain as he turned around and noticed the smaller man aiming his pistol at him.

"Should've known you'd get smart, Dan," the Sarge said with a chuckle. "But you have no idea what your role in this is. Even if you've gotten this far. Even if a pawn becomes a queen, it's still just a playing piece. And capturing me won't help either; you'll get nothing out of me."

The Sarge let out another chuckle. Catching him won't be that useful, since this man was trained to resist torture, and most definitely wouldn't rat out his accomplices. If anything, they'd come find him instead. Apparently they already knew who he was.

"I always knew we should've killed you while we had the chance."

"Smile," Rorschach growled. "Right into this gun barrel."

Perhaps the Protectors wouldn't mind if he removed one of their pieces off the board. Rorschach finished him off by sending two rounds right into his sternum, completing the tight-grouped double tap, and after the Sarge fell like a slain safari animal, Rorschach finished with one round to the head. Didn't matter how big he was. A .45 at this range will kill any man. The blood began to pool, but the temperature would make sure it would coagulate fast.

Rorschach turned to Lasko, who was still frightened out of his mind. Apparently, he had never run into these types of killers in his line of work before. The train was approaching, beginning to slow down. Hastily, Rorschach grabbed him by the collars and slammed him against the wall.

"Said something about Diana," he grunted. "About her father."

He needed clarification.

"I…" Lasko shook his head. "I don't fucking know!"

Rorschach had no patience for this bullshit. He swung Lasko over to the edge of the platform and held him over the tracks, waiting for the train to come in. Lasko let out a shout of terror.

"TELL ME," Rorschach yelled, trying to make himself audible over the train pulling in, the ink blots buzzing about like electricity from a Tesla coil.

Lasko began breathing heavily. "I told 'em…about her father. I told them."

"Who do they work for?"

He shook his head. The train encroached.

"WHO?"

The train continued. Just a good fifty feet now.

"They…they…"

Twenty-five feet.

"Darian Alexan—"

Before the train could even run him over, blood spurted out from the exit wound on Lasko's chest and splashed Rorschach's sleeve like ink, indicating a bullet shot from a diagonal angle. Rorschach dropped him on the ground and hit the deck as another bullet whizzed by, barely missing him. He determined where the bullets were coming from and crouched behind a trash bin as one more bullet screeched by above his head, colliding with the steel structure of the platform behind him. The train finally slowed onto the platform and another bullet gave out a sharp _ping_ as it hit the train. On the floor, Lasko coughed up blood and barely twitched, bleeding out slowly like a gutted pig, the life draining from his dull eyes. For a moment, he seemed apologetic for all that he had done, for giving up Diana's family like that. He didn't have much longer to live; the bullet was too large. There was no time to save him. Rorschach had to get the hell out of there.

The train doors opened and Rorschach crawled inside.

* * *

"Excuse me," Diana shoved her way through the small crowd, running into the night officer. Was this the right place Johnson told her to come to?

"Pardon, miss," the officer said. "Who are you?"

She flashed her badge. "Detective Diana Hollis, NYPD."

The officer lifted the yellow tape up and gestured for her to enter. "Alright, come on."

"Who is on the scene here?" she asked as she passed underneath.

"Just a few of us as well as Detective Alonzo Burke from the east side."

She nodded and continued up the stairs to the platform, where a few officers stood guard, leaving the detective to canvass the scene, crouched down to examine the blood stains. She spotted two bodies, and was almost too afraid to ask. The detective, a tall black man with tired, weathered wrinkles on his face and a permanent apathetic expression that seemed to be reinforced with years of experience, stood up and held his hand out. She could barely meet his old, puppy-like eyes that were shielded by a fedora that had seen too many winters.

"Detective Hollis," she nodded, shaking his hand.

"Burke," he replied. "Pleasure to meet you."

Diana looked down at the bodies. "I'm looking for Detective Jack Lasko. I searched around known hangouts and was directed here."

Burke looked at her and removed his hat, revealing his graying hair, and placed the hat on his chest. "I'm sorry. You found him."

For a moment, it seemed like she couldn't breathe. Was this what people meant when they explained the word shock? She opened her mouth, but no words could be formed. Lasko. Which one was Lasko? She compared the two and concluded that it was the smaller-bodied one. There he was, rested neatly on the steel platform with a white sheet covering over his body. Her mind imagined that he'd have a frozen face of pure agony to match the winter night. Diana took a few steps and stared at the white blanket squirming with the wind on top of Jack's body. Her eyes began to water. No one's ever died on her before. She went over to the body and lifted up the white sheet.

"He was your partner," Burke said.

"Yes," she nodded. "On and off."

"Different cases?"

"Yes."

Burke nodded. She could tell that he was having trouble asking her some of these questions. "Your partner…did you know where he was going to be tonight?"

"Not until fifteen minutes ago," she said. "When was his body discovered?"

Burke glanced at his watch. It was nearly three o'clock. "About two hours ago."

Then, she looked over toward the other dead body. "Did this man kill him?"

"No," the detective said. "From what it looks like, Detective Lasko was killed by a much larger bullet that hit him from one of the buildings on the other side of the platform. A sniper, probably. Shot at a diagonal angle from what I've seen. CSI should be here shortly. This man on the side, here, was killed too, but not by the sniper, and not by Lasko."

She stood up and wiped her eyes. She had to know the facts. "It couldn't have been two people. They'd have just sent one to kill both of them. Not one and a sniper."

"Maybe one killed the other man and alerted Lasko, and the sniper took Lasko out."

"Or not," Diana walked over to the other body and lifted it up. A big man with multiple gunshot wounds. "It wouldn't make sense based on body placement. This guy was killed first, and Lasko was shot in the back, diagonally."

She looked across the platform and noticed that the only buildings nearby were on the far left, which meant that Lasko would have been facing the street with his back to the tracks. She also spotted bullet shells, and she bent down to examine them.

".45 ACPs," Burke said. "They're fresh. You could still smell the cordite."

Taking a breath, she left the bullets where they were and tried to recreate the scene in her head. What happened here? She knew that if she wanted to track the killer down, she need to know the facts right away, and she knew for damn sure that this was connected to her case, because Lasko getting shot by a sniper from a distant rooftop was far too shady to be shoved under the umbrella of gangster crimes.

"Who's this guy?" she asked.

"Something about him strikes me a bit odd, too," he said. "I haven't checked his person yet, though. You can go ahead."

She put on gloves and promptly searched through his pockets, finding nothing except lint and a few dollars. It was also infuriating since she couldn't find a gun on him, either. The oddest thing was that his clothes had their tags removed, and any sort of label that could give it away at first sight was also eliminated. This man obviously wanted to be untraceable. She, too, realized that she had seen this person before somewhere, but just couldn't put her finger on the place. Maybe she saw someone who looked just like him.

When she continued on, she discovered that underneath his coat he wore something that resembled a military BDU. In fact, it turned out to be one. Where did this guy come from that would make him wear this? Former military? Army? Marines? She stood up as the identity of this man suddenly came to her. This was the Sarge, one of those Protectors who hijacked the cable lines. They've also been responsible for the sharp drop in petty crime this past week, but what was _he_ doing _here_? And how was Lasko a part of this?

"A Protector," she said.

"Protector? Like the ones from TV?"

"Yeah. Just like them. I've been on the Rorschach case for some time now, and these Protectors fell into the loop, too. Now I know for sure that they're into whatever is happening in my case. There was a sniper. Probably one of them, too."

"If what you say is true, then who came here and killed this man?"

"Lasko doesn't carry a .45," she told him, showing the old detective the Sarge's body. "He carries a .40 Smith and Wesson revolver. The Sarge isn't carrying a .45 either. He's got a Beretta M9. He gets shot in the elbow here and drops his gun. These wounds—here and here—on the chest are very tight groupings. Millimeters apart. One to the head to finish him off. It's a Failure Drill, or Mozambique Drill. You practiced a few of those at the range, didn't you?"

Burke nodded. "Yeah, when I was younger. But I've never used my gun before, so now I just do straight shots."

"Two in the chest, one in the head. This is right on the mark, too. Much better than what I could do in a pressure situation. Whoever shot him was going right for the execution."

"And Lasko?"

"He was here for something, and it got him killed," she stated, staring at the frozen pool of blood on the ground next to Lasko's body. "The killer probably grabbed him and that's when he was shot in the back."

It meant that Lasko was having a conversation with the Sarge. A friendly one.

"When would you ever shoot someone in the back?"

"The blizzard was pretty rough around the time of the crime. Must've been a desperate shot. Lucky they hit the lung. If I was going to shoot someone like this, then it'd be because they don't mean much to me. But since Lasko was probably talking to the Sarge, it'd be because I wouldn't want any information loose."

Burke pointed towards the dead Protector and nodded.

"The guy's wearing a wire, too. The sniper was probably listening in."

In her gut, she knew that Rorschach did this. He had to. This was all connected somehow, and Lasko must have gotten into something dangerous with the Protectors to be killed in the cold, all alone with no one to say farewell to. In that moment, she remembered what she learned back home, too, when her father pulled up those files.

"Dan," she suddenly said. "He's Rorschach."

"Who?"

Diana stood up. "You'll take care of this, won't you?"

"Well, yes."

"Thank you. I have to go."

She was somewhat relieved that Lasko wouldn't have died in vain. She was going to end this, even if it takes her into the morning.

* * *

Dan came out of the shower with his boxers on and threw on an undershirt, tossing the face into one of the drawers and placing the gun contraption in a box, sliding it underneath his bed. If he knew the Protectors, they wouldn't be directly looking for him since they knew who he was and was obviously after someone else. In any case, he needed a few hours of sleep, even if he had to sleep lightly. He was getting too tired.

A knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Alex."

Standing up, Dan walked over to his door and unlocked it, allowing her into his room. He was sure that she worried about his safety, but also knew that she'd be relieved that he returned in one piece. Immediately, he was greeted with a hug, to which he also (somewhat) returned with his own warmth. Dan was beginning to get the feeling that he was about to be out of the woods soon, and that the rest of the Protectors would fall like flies. If getting the Sarge was as easy as shooting a leg or two, then maybe getting the others wouldn't be too difficult after all. But he mentally slapped himself. He shouldn't get cocky.

"Did you get hurt? Let me see you."

He looked around his body and shrugged. "Looking good."

Alex gave him a smile and ran her hand down his abdomen. "Right."

He actually had something saved up in his kitchen somewhere. Dan let her go and went to grab it as she shut the front door. When he came out with the two glasses and a bottle of wine, she seemed awfully surprised.

"I didn't know you were so classy."

Dan placed the glasses on the table and chuckled a bit. "I'm really not much of a wine guy. I just saved this up for something special."

She glided her way over to the table elegantly. "And what's so special about tonight? This morning?"

He didn't really know what to say as he poured the wine. "Well…I didn't die. I guess something just feels right. For the first time in a long time."

Alex sat and lifted the glass up to her nose to smell the wine. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

Dan watched as she sipped her wine, noticing that her hair was tied up. She hadn't slept. After another moment's consideration, he drank his glass, too. He disliked alcohol. The only time he'd ever drink it is when he's either at the bar (which was rarely ever) or if he had some sort of pain that drinking would numb down. This wine tasted alright, though, and he could see that she enjoyed it, too.

"So how was Veidt Street Station?" she asked. "Meet any lonely hearts there?"

He shrugged. "A few."

"You kill anybody?" she inquired with some interest.

"It doesn't matter. If you're asking out of creating some common ground of interest between us, then let me say that you don't have to. If it bothers you, then we shouldn't talk about it."

"Oh."

He gave her a nod and took another sip.

"I'm sorry, Alex."

She looked up, surprised again. "For what?"

"Being difficult for you this whole time," Dan said. "I know I can be stubborn. The city is a big place, and I haven't made the time to make any friends. And I haven't valued you as a friend. And I'm sorry."

"Coming from you, that means a lot," she repeated with a heartfelt smile. Then, she looked down at her lap. "I-I've been alone for quite some time, too. Ever since…"

Dan stared right across the table, indicating that he was listening. He didn't budge.

"My cousin died a few years ago in the Middle East. It made me want to move out here, because I was just so angry back home. He and I were close. Practically like brother and sister. He died after my father passed away, leaving just me and my mother," she explained. "My mother started to drink. Losing my father then losing my cousin, who was like a son to her, tore her apart. She didn't have room for me anymore."

He didn't touch his wine, examining her actions as she told her story. She didn't seem like she was still grieving, more like she had gotten over it already. But it was still very personal.

"One night she hanged herself. Then I moved out here," she said. "That was two years ago."

"I'm sorry," Dan said. "Even if I didn't know your mother. Or your cousin."

"Really?" she asked.

"It doesn't mean much."

She looked at him and gave him a warm expression, but he seemed to be lost in thought. Dan only thought it was fair that he told her something, as well, since he listened to what she had said. He knew that she would want to hear about it, since it was also about death, and the Middle East.

"I wasn't completely telling you the truth," Dan spoke up.

Alex was uncertain of what he was saying.

"About how my friend died," he clarified. "Benitez…he was a good friend. Always had my back. I was instructed to help level down half of this club in the residential area because it had a brothel in the back that illegally transferred slaves. Before that, I had rescued one of the girls and brought her back to base. She was going to be sent back home."

He raised the glass to his lips and sipped once more.

"On the night that I planted the bombs in the right place, she was raped by Sergeant Benitez. My friend. I was angry. He violated my trust. I went back to the brothel, where he was located after he had raped her and wanted to blow his brains out. But I couldn't, even though I had lost him as a friend. I told him to escape before the bombs go off. On the way out, I discovered that the whore from the brothel had followed me. She didn't want me to spill any blood, and I didn't. But it was too late."

He took one more drink of his wine, finishing it.

"They both died in the explosion," Dan said. "I had failed them both. And from there, everything about my life was wrong. I came back here, got the taxi job, whatever. I lost purpose. And that is why I'm doing this."

Dan set down his glass and took one long sigh. He hadn't felt this comfortable in forever.

"Thanks, Alex," he said. "Thanks for listening to me."

With her heart beating quickly, she looked at him and noticed his eyes were somewhat watering, though he was far from crying.

"I am content."

And he meant it. She didn't realize that a tear had rolled down her cheek.

A knock on the door.

"Dan Lee? It's Diana. Open up."

**So, I tried to make it so that Dan's life is not completely sucking and is more or less starting to have its ups and downs again, and I've also resolved (somewhat) Diana's character arc, which I plan to go over more in the next chapter, as she's finally gaining a bit of wisdom to accompany her knowledge. But (perhaps) I have a few more tricks up my very tricky sleeves as I clear the web of details and tell you the real story of what's been going on. It's all coming up. Thanks for reading.**


	14. No Love Lost

**It's not very often that I write a 10,000 word chapter. In this case, though, I didn't feel that I should have broken it up. I deeply apologize for having left the story for so long. Often, I'd return to writing it, but it never felt quite right, but I'm keeping my word. I'm going to finish this story because I have to.**

**There's much that goes on in this chapter, and I really hope you enjoy every last word. Thanks for being so patient.**

**Also, I realize that FanFiction reformatted and thus, deleted all the separations that I had made between sections. Now it looks like it's all jumbled up. Sorry for the confusion if you're new to reading this story.**

**Chapter 14: No Love Lost**

"I'll get out through the fire escape," Alex said. "If she's a cop, like you said, then I wouldn't want to draw any more suspicion towards you."

"Fine," Dan replied, gesturing towards the window. His sentimental nature immediately restructured itself to being rigid once again, putting the armor back on him.

Alex nodded and drew in very quickly, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"See you in a bit."

Dan cleared his throat and allowed her to leave.

With haste, she scurried over towards his window and pushed it up, sliding it so that she could slip underneath and head back up to their floor from the floor down below, and hopefully make it to her apartment without any trouble. The door was still being knocked on.

"Dan? Are you there?"

Dan went and shut his window after putting the two glasses back into the kitchen. It was probably best if he talked to her, anyway, just to find out what she knew. On top of that, he already knew that she assumed he was part of Delahunt's heroin ring, so perhaps this was about that. Or maybe it was about something else? She could have an entire squad waiting to tackle him down and subdue him, but he had a feeling that she would be much too curious to do that. He wiped his hands on the fabric of his boxers and went toward the door. When he opened, there she stood. She looked much taller in high heels; almost about his height.

She was Dreiberg's little girl; the daughter of Silk Spectre and Nite Owl, and she had that look about her, too. Diana seemed to have a strong presence as her eyebrows furrowed with confrontational anger, like she already knew a few things about him that he wouldn't have liked others to know. The light of the hallway reflected against her hair, which was now cut shorter than when she was still undercover as a student. It gave her a tougher edge that somewhat amused him.

"Diana," he said. "This is unexpected. You _are_ stalking me, aren't you?"

"Will you let me come in?"

"Because legally, you just can't barge in, right?"

A surprised look highlighted her features somewhat. And for Diana, her suspicions were confirmed. He knew exactly who she was.

She decided not to address it directly. "Not only that, but because it's nice to ask."

"Why do you want to come in?"

"I'd like to talk to you about some things."

He raised an eyebrow. "Concerning?"

"Many things," she said. "Maybe a few murders. Maybe a mask."

A wry smirk appeared at the edge of his lips and he nodded. She was smart enough to get this far, and she wasn't quite an enemy; perhaps she, herself didn't know what she was getting into. So he let her in.

"Would you like to start?" he asked, shutting the door behind her.

"I know, Dan," she said to him.

He leaned on his table and crossed his arms, unaffected as to what she was accusing.

"I know that you're Rorschach. I know that you killed Kirilenko, Delahunt, the Sarge, and Lasko, among others. I know that you met up with my father."

Dan took a breath and gave her a stare that seemed to intimidate her.

"These are very serious accusations. If I recall, the courts allow illegally obtained evidence against me, even if it may be from the former Nite Owl."

"Never said I was a cop."

"Stop doing that," Dan nearly cut her off. "It's insulting to me."

"You want to talk about insults, you might want to look in the mirror once in awhile."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I bought into your little act, Dan," she said, nearing him. "From the day I met you. That little stutter to make it seem like you couldn't fit in. That antisocial frailty, and the aloofness that you perfected so well. I bought it the first time I walked into your taxi. So what's your plan, Dan? Raze the city? Or is it the fight with the Protectors? I know that you have ties to the CIA from back in the Middle East. Is this some kind of unfinished business?"

Standing back up straight to tower a few good inches over her, his expression changed to one of slight disappointment, as if she had a detail wrong.

"You know me so well," he remarked. There was sarcasm, but he basically confirmed that her suspicions were correct.

"Yeah, well I'm a detective. It's what I do."

"More like green detective. I'm sure you don't have any of the big cases yet."

The heroin case that she was originally after did feel like her Lieutenant was just giving her some busy work to do while the others investigated real cases, such as wondering who was shaking the mayor's hand at the ball next Sunday, or how they could be paid a bit higher. Either way, she wasn't making much impact before.

Diana scoffed. "I have you."

"Yeah. By yourself and no team to back you up."

She was quiet, unsure of what he was insinuating, but there was a growing frustration within her. The Dan she knew from awhile ago wouldn't dare to be this defiant with words; yes, he was very idealistic at first, but he never hid his intentions from her.

"It means you're desperate," Dan said in a low voice, somewhat insulting her.

"The trail led me here to _you_. I don't think I've done so bad, considering that I'm here and I've got you by the balls already."

"And we haven't even gotten to know each other yet," he remarked sarcastically. "Anyway, detective, I'm not so terrible at detecting myself."

Diana shot him a glare, wondering what he meant. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you here?"

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this for one," she stated confidently. "Then I'm going to arrest you."

A chuckle surfaced.

"I meant that question more personally."  
"What?"

"You know a little bit why I'm here," he said, "but do you know why _you're_ here?"

"To solve this case."

"You don't belong here," Dan told her. "It's fascinating that a young, educated woman like you would choose to be down here."

Diana scoffed. "Now _you're_ the detective, huh?"

"I said I wasn't so terrible myself," he said, walking toward the window that had a slanted view of New York.

"Now you're going to tell me that your penis is over ten inches and you can bench press three hundred pounds."

"Wouldn't be a stretch."

Immediately, Diana grimaced, which led him to smirk. He seemed to enjoy playing along.

"Whatever," she muttered angrily. "Try me."

As you wish.

"You're educated," he reiterated. "Wealthy, and not just because I know who your father is. I had a feeling from the start."

Dan turned away from the view of the frigid New York and faced her.

"You had options. A lot of options. Could've been a lawyer, doctor, architect, engineer. Chose this job. Not logical."

He was beginning to sound like Rorschach, his voice low and meditating.

"Hurm. Personal reasons," Dan stated. "Didn't lose any loved ones. Nothing like that. The reason is more self-centered. Knew what your parents used to do. Overshadowed your entire life. Suffocated you. Disliked lacking the ability to save others; disliked your parents' unwillingness to do so anymore."

She was watching carefully as he continued on, letting him strip her of the frail armor that she wore, already fractured from Lasko's sudden death.

"Wanted to prove yourself. You knew that you had a choice. Chose law enforcement. They advised against your choice, but you didn't listen. Didn't compromise."

Diana blinked for a second, as if she flinched from his deduction of her, and for the moment, Dan seemed silhouetted by the sudden moonlight pouring in from the window, like a shadowy specter looming in the forgotten crevices of this jungle. She looked away and cleared her throat. Clouds swallowed the moon again moments later.

"That, Detective Hollis, is why you're doing this," Dan said. "That's why you're trying to shut out Lasko's death. Underestimated the impact of failure. How does it feel?"

The question was like a stake to the heart, but whereas most others would ask "how does it feel" in an accusing tone, Dan asked it in a more honest fashion, like he had felt the emotions that she was feeling before. He asked her almost in a way as if she had achieved something. Like Bob Dylan. How does it feel? She gave off a hopeless smirk, trying to regain what confidence in this case that she had left.

"That's cute," she remarked, her composure slightly faltering. "But don't think you know me."

He looked away, as if he wasn't quite buying her confident remark. Her tone, her voice, and her demeanor were hardly congruent with those hard words. A long moment passed between them and her eyes began to water; was he waiting for her to say something? Was he simply being quiet to let her meditate on her failure? After that moment, he kindly broke off the tension with an exhalation, a sign that he was moving on. "So long as I get the same deal, then we're fine."

She glanced at him with slight confusion. What was he talking about?

"I didn't kill your partner," he said. "Granted, I was there when he was killed. Being Rorschach doesn't mean you can just kill anyone you want. In any case, I put a spotlight on New York to scatter the roaches. You and I both know this city's a lot better off without Delahunt and his kind."

She sniffled, content that she had fought the tears away; or that Dan decided to forget about making her feel guilty. "We could have arrested him."

They loved playing their little games.

"You play the game long enough, you're bound to lose."

"Your point?"

"_I don't treat it like one_," he hissed confrontationally, his body language turning rigid. "Nobody's clean."

She took a breath and looked away again, knowing that he was right. In a way, too, this was new for her since she never had any intentions of working in the homicide department with Lasko; this was a multiple homicide case, albeit linked to the drugs she was originally after. Either way, Dan didn't need to try hard in convincing her. His confidence was enough.

"If you want things to change, people need to die," he followed up abruptly.

Walking to his drawer, Dan slid his hand underneath and pulled one open, grasping inside to locate something. He grasped the face and tossed it on the bed, and continued looking for other things. He wanted to get ready, and didn't care if she was here; somehow, he knew she wasn't going to arrest him.

"Dan," she said. He lifted his head just a bit before he continued reaching for clothes. "Do the ends justify the means?"

"If you've lost something important," Dan said, "then you already know the answer. Bloody stains, like loved ones, wash away eventually."

"Nothing is forgiven, Dan."

The only thing that would last is commitment, and what Dan feared the most was how much he could handle. He found a suitable undershirt to wear his gun holster over and hanged it on the chair. Diana seemed uncertain for a moment. Was she really ready for this? She thought of Lasko and made up her mind. She would need more time to gather herself.

"He gave up your family, you know," he said. "Lasko. Said something about your father to them."

"If they tried to kill him for it, then they didn't like the information. I'll be back tomorrow," she said firmly. "We have a lot to discuss."

He didn't flinch at her choice. He held out a hand.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow, detective."

Wearily, she shook his hand and he patted her shoulder.

She left.

* * *

Reed is dead. Sarah took care of that fucking rat, Lasko.

Shit. Who did him in?

It was your fucking boy. You should've kept closer eyes on him, Mel.

I should've known.

Goddamn right you should've. Now we're short one man and we still need to finish our search.

I'm sorry, Neil.

Sarah and I were listening to the recording of Lasko and Reed's conversation earlier at the platform. Did you know his partner's parents were—

His partner, Diana?

Yeah. Don't trust the lead though. Lasko's as sketchy as they come.

Actually, she was just here. She left a few minutes ago.

Then that shithead was right. Did you get a good look at her?

No, I excused myself from Dan's room before I could see her.

Probably the spitting image of Juspeczyk and Dreiberg. We're going after them now.

…that makes me clear.

Right. Your clear to confront him, Alex. Just make sure Dan goes to sleep forever. We don't need him screwing up anything else.

Don't call me that again.

Ah, yes. Reed told me about your little problem with killing him. So what happened, did you two share some intimate time together? Did you screw him?

No, of course not.

Oh, sorry. Let me rephrase the question: Did "Alex" screw him?

No.

Then what's the big fucking problem? Get rid of him.

…

He killed Sergeant Jose Benitez.

He didn't.

Why, because he said he didn't? I'm listening in on your conversations, too, Mel. He's a liar; a trained liar and a murderer.

No. No he's not.

He's already killed his share of people this past month and has slept like a baby. I know you watch him sleep, too.

…

Did you know Benitez's child is 2 years old now?

Shut up. You made your point. I'll do it.

Blood on your hands doesn't last long. Dan is a testament to that. You're still a rookie. Learn to get the job done, or you'll be looking at twenty-plus years in a federal cell.

Fine. After this, I'm done.

I don't care. Just do it.

* * *

What a pretentious asshole. She took a right turn onto the long road that would lead her to the semi-suburb where her parents lived and found herself fuming. It was most likely the way Dan spoke to her, as if he was challenging her, playing around with her, trying to get her to do something drastic and tip her over the edge. Diana angrily slammed on the horn when the taxi in front of her was taking too long. Who the hell was he to tell her who she was? Nonetheless, she had to admit it was an impressive deduction from Rorschach. She never much enjoyed talking about herself with anyone; never explained herself.

Not even to Lasko.

She pulled up at the next stop sign and took a deep breath. This could just be Dan prolonging things for his own benefit. How would she know if he wasn't going to skip town? She was down on herself for letting her emotions grab hold of her so easily, or rather yet, how Dan manipulated her emotions—pushing her buttons. Tomorrow, she decided she was going to either get answers or bring him down to the station. Her father would probably have more answers, too, as she and Lasko forgot to ask him about the one time he came back home and found Rorschach waiting for him. On top of that, Lasko's apparent involvement with all of this.

Wait. Her father _would_ have answers, wouldn't he?

Without hesitating, Diana took a right and headed towards Newland Heights. It was not long before daybreak, but she needed answers. Her parents wouldn't mind.

* * *

Long after Diana had left the building, Dan was still peering out the window, unsure of what he should do next. Where was she going? Home? Didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now was getting rid of the other Protectors. What haunted him were the last words of Lasko. Darian Alex. Where had he heard that name before? Obviously, the man didn't finish saying the last name, but Dan remembered hearing a name somewhere along those lines. Darian Alex. It rolled off his tongue so familiarly, like a name that had been all but erased from his long-term memory. Who was Darian Alexander?

That was it! The name was Darian Alexander.

The CIA man. Bronstein's boss. Was he the chess player, moving the pieces on the board?

He wondered whether or not to tell Diana. Assuming her resources were useful, she'd have known about his past already. In fact, she might have even more answers for him; he cursed the fact that he figured it out a little too late. It was time to follow her. On top of that, her parents were likely in real danger, though Diana was also right—if they killed Lasko, it meant he was no good anymore.

_"Then I'll see you tomorrow, detective."_

_ Wearily, she shook his hand and he patted her shoulder. _He dropped his cell phone in her pocket when he lowered his hand.

_ She left._

He'd have to track his phone via the internet. Dan walked over to his bedside and reached for the old laptop stashed beneath the bed, bringing it up to his side and powering it on. After a few minutes, he downloaded an application that tracked his phone and pinpointed it on a real-time GPS, showing the cell phone moving as a red dot along the New York City map. He imagined she lived near the university, but somehow, the vehicle was far from it, heading across the bridge and towards Newland Heights. Was she visiting Dreiberg?

The red dot was still moving about Newland Heights, reaching the area where Dan Dreiberg and Laurie Juspeczyk lived. She wasn't planning on sleeping. Dan would have to head over there immediately if he were to catch all of them in one place.

He walked over to the drawers and pulled out the face, its many ink patterns shifting, changing like sand in the desert, like blood dissolving in water. It was so intimidating, but so mesmerizing and perhaps even harmonious. It moved. He wasn't sure if what he felt was the same way Walter felt when he looked at this simple thing.

No. It was not a face. It was simply a mask. A disguise.

It hit him, finally. It was why he had been behaving the way he did. Dan decided that right then and there that all things didn't matter. He knew that whatever Walter had done as Rorschach was in the past; whatever blood was left behind would be washed away. Whatever had to be done now, he would do his own way. Rorschach was not defined by the two simple colors or the gritty dark coat or the rugged fedora. At this very moment, he understood. Rorschach wasn't the rough past of friends lost and innocence abandoned; it wasn't about losing faith or gaining it. It wasn't about the ideals, the glory, or the 'ink.' It wasn't about how he felt or how decrepit the people were or how politicians cheated them. It wasn't about the journal or how the abyss stares back.

Rorschach wasn't that.

Rorschach, with every ounce of his understanding, was action. Action moving through him with his every intention; without effort. Like breathing. Everything else was petty.

The realization was somewhat surreal. This alone was why he disregarded everything when he was at work; when he was doing what he was meant to do. Dan could feel his body easing into a euphoric state, an empty sensation of clarity. And then, he chuckled. He chuckled at what had happened to him all these years, and how he had reacted so strongly to them, wasting a few good years of his youth. The anger that had driven him over the edge suddenly seemed worthless, and it seemed as if some weight had been lifted from his shoulders. In a twisted way, he was somewhat thankful that these experiences had pushed him to this point; he would have never understood any part of himself if he hadn't pursued this road. And there was much more to understand. It all made sense now.

He was Rorschach.

He put on the Rorschach mask, feeling the fabric slide comfortably over his face. It felt different. It wasn't the same kind of liberation that he felt when he first put it on in that apartment across town. It was different. It felt permanent now, like he didn't have to feel inclined to be someone different when he put on or took off the mask. To know and understand his purpose, and to feel aligned with it was a particularly strange feeling.

Rorschach slipped on his clothes and tools afterwards and wondered how he'd be able to drive to Newland Heights in time to reach Diana. He could head over to the station and grab his taxi. No. It'd take too much time. He'd have to borrow Alex's car. She'd lend it to him, wouldn't she? It's a damned emergency.

He stepped out of his room and locked the door, heading over to Alex's and bringing his hand up to knock it. Instantly, she opened the door and met him with a smile; he could tell she had been waiting for him to come to her, perhaps to tell her about what had happened. She looked a bit surprised. Maybe she thought he'd spend the night with her. It would have to be postponed.

"Going…somewhere?" she asked, confused. She allowed him to come in, and shut the door behind them.

"Going to sort this out tonight," Rorschach replied. "Need your car."

She tilted her head a bit to let her hair fall from her shoulders. It was a sensitive gesture.

"_Dan_," she said in a nurturing tone. It almost had a touch of somberness to it.

Alex walked past him, and he noticed she wasn't wearing pants anymore. Her underwear was barely visible, but he didn't want to get distracted and kept his eyes up. He followed her as she went to grab her keys in the kitchen.

"Things are complicated. I'll explain later."

"If you must," she said, handing him the keys after snatching them from the table. She looked into the mask afterwards, unsure of where his eyes were. "Don't mess up the car."

Without answering, he reached underneath his mask and lifted it, exposing his mouth. Dan leaned forward and entered her space, not caring if she accepted it or not. This attitude seemed to communicate to her and she instinctively drew closer into him. Dan grabbed her, his hands wrapped around her back, and pulled her into him. He planted a kiss on her lips, which she returned passionately, her hands moving up and down his chest. He wasn't Casanova, but the moment felt sensual enough. When Dan backed away, he realized she had trouble letting him go, her arms grasping him tightly.

"I'll come back."

He put the mask back on and received the keys. With a nod, he turned around and began leaving. For a moment, something felt off, but he ignored it.

Rorschach reached for the doorknob.

A gunshot.

He stood for a second before the sensation registered. He stumbled forward towards the door, with his balance shaky.

Rorschach turned around but the person facing him was but a silhouette, and he couldn't recognize her. In a way, perhaps he refused to recognize her as the woman he just kissed seconds ago. It was all coming so fast.

She raised the gun.

* * *

It was a Ruger MkIII that took .22 Long Rifle rounds; a gun that was small, and quiet enough that it wouldn't be recognized outside. It may have been a bit on the small side, but the gun was a favorite for close-range kills. If, for one, the killer shot someone in the head with it, instead of the bullet going right through (like the 9mm pistols), it would stay inside, knocking around all the brain matter. She had already taken care of the neighbors, making sure that none of them were going to be home; this included that bitch of a landlady and the clueless hipster down the hall, among others.

When Melina Benitez-Marks was still at West Point, she had no idea that her career would take a turn such as this. Her father, a decorated former employee of the CIA, pulled a few strings to get her a position high up in the agency. Instead of moving her way up in the Army like she had hoped to, she was instead thrown into a blunder of intelligence operations, gathering intel as she was sent around the Middle East. It was bitch work; pretty much just gather and report, with no idea of what her superiors were doing behind the curtain.

It was two years ago when she heard the news.

Her cousin, Jose Benitez, was dead.

Back on the farm where she grew up, she didn't have much family. The closest she had to a brother was Jose, whose mother had moved up with them because their father was shot and killed in some project in San Antonio. He grew up with the idea of joining the military, too. And he joined the Marines. When he died, her mother hanged herself. It was like losing a son.

This was to be her first operation under an alias, with zero backup whatsoever. She wasn't supposed to become emotionally involved with the subject. She had to carry on her mission.

Rorschach was motionless. Melina squeezed the trigger two more times, watching the bullets penetrate his coat, sending small puffs of dust into the air. Two more to the sternum. He let out a groan, and she sensed the pain he was going through as he slid down the door into a sitting position.

It was a long five seconds.

She had never killed anyone before, not even in her service years because she was an officer who did mostly office work. Melina never realized it was so simple; simple, but not easy. After another moment, she let herself breathe, her eyes still on the motionless body of Sergeant Daniel Lee, the man responsible for Benitez's death. And even then, he wasn't quite responsible. This was supposed to be victory, but she felt hollow, as if it passed by; like she had been viewing it from a moving car. No, this wasn't victory at all. Though Dan was a somewhat crooked person, he was never insidious, never seemed like he was a human wrecking ball, destroying lives as he moved through the world. He was an injured puppy. A victim of his circumstances.

And before she shot him, she felt that he had transformed into something greater, and that she helped him do it. Melina suddenly approached him, wondering if he was still alive. She didn't want this. It wasn't worth it, and it wasn't going to bring back Benitez. Whatever she had fought for, she wanted to forget, and if she had to spend the rest of her life atoning for this very sin, she wouldn't mind.

A tear was forming at the corner of her eye. Guilt.

From the body, a clicking mechanism could be heard as his hand shot up towards her. From his sleeve, a heavily modified .38 caliber revolver shot out into his hand, aiming right for her.

She watched as light emerged from the end of that barrel.

* * *

Six shots.

Rorschach quickly squeezed off all six shots and Alex received every single round. All hits to the torso. She collapsed backwards and remained motionless.

Dead.

He didn't even have a moment to reflect on what had just happened. The only thing that came to his mind after emptying the cylinder was that the .38 was too big to be a surprise defense weapon. Though the revolver was cut down to size, it was still rather bulky in his sleeve. The thing could've easily caught on to something and the mechanism might not have worked. He was grateful for the security vest he had stolen, though. It certainly came in handy.

He stood up and removed the entire arm contraption, placing it on the couch neatly, as if he were setting aside his keys or cell phone after a long day at work. He walked over her body and noticed the blood already beginning to pool underneath her. The room was dimly lit, but he could see her face. He felt no animosity towards her, nor did he feel anything from what had happened. No love lost, no love found.

So whatever game she had been playing was finally over.

He entered her room, searching for anything else that might explain why she suddenly produced a gun and tried to kill him. As he glanced around, he noticed that most of the things in the room seemed new. They couldn't be more than a month or two old, because certain aspects of her room, such as the texture of her sheets, were still somewhat rigid and weren't worn down. The sheets had probably gone through the washer maybe once or twice. Rorschach walked over to her nightstand and picked up her cell phone. It was one of those new Veidt phones with the upgraded touch screens.

He navigated his way through the desktop menu of the phone and skimmed through the selection of apps, eventually making his way to the notepad, where he hoped she had left a few clues. If she were any smart, she'd have those deleted as soon as she no longer needed them. Unfortunately, it seemed as though she was somewhat of a rookie. She had been keeping together a log of her "progress."

In the log, she mentioned how he never had the "answer" they were looking for. The man they were trying to locate. How they were waiting and waiting and waiting on him, and how things began to escalate when they were targeted by Rorschach fakes throughout the city. She kept mentioning how "he" was sending the clones after them, and therefore "he" must still be out there. If they mentioned that, then was there a possibility that "he" might not have existed? Rorschach wasn't sure, but this information hit him like cold water. It mentioned other teammates of hers—the Protectors.

He turned away. The Protectors? Anger seethed beneath his skin.

So she was using him. Bitch. He flipped through each page of notes and journal logs, and finally came across a name that raised hairs on his body.

Adrian Veidt.

The anger immediately subsided, and the ink blots froze.

They're looking for Adrian Veidt.

Why?

He paced around the room, wondering why they would be looking for the man who had everything. Even though the man was responsible for the death of millions (as well as Walter and Eddie Blake), Rorschach didn't understand the connection to what was happening. Lasko had mentioned Darian Alexander.

Wait. That was it!

Darian Alexander is Adrian Veidt. A simple swap of the first two letters in his first name, coupled with name of the original man who inspired him put him behind the scenes; Veidt was the same guy who developed an interest regarding the prostitution trade in the Middle East. Was it the CIA exacting revenge on the multibillionaire? Did he step on the wrong toes? If it was the CIA, then why did they go so public about it? Why the mentioning of the Protectors instead of going undercover as regular folk? What did it all mean?

The phone suddenly rang. The screen took him to a small menu that told him there was an incoming call from "NEIL." He answered the phone.

"We're almost there. Sarah's got the eye," a masculine voice said. "You take care of the boy?"

Rorschach let the line hang.

"Hello?"

He was going to kill them with his bare hands. Rorschach hung up. He was going to head to Diana's.

* * *

Diana closed her cell phone after a fourth try on the house phone. No one was picking up. She rounded the corner and noticed that the house lights were still on, but she was cautious. Parking on the side of the road, she checked the Springfield XD9 at her waist, bringing it up and cocking the round into the chamber. It could get heated. Even more so, she felt an anxiety unlike any other rise up from beneath her chest. She hoped her parents were okay.

After crossing the street, Diana walked up the driveway which had just been shoveled earlier, clearing it of snow. She rubbed her hands together for warmth as she approached the front door and pressed the bell. Almost immediately, someone came and opened the door. It was her father.

"Huh? Back already?"

She drew a breath of relief.

"Jesus, why didn't you guys answer your phone?"

"Hey," her father remarked. "I'm not Jesus."

"You could've at least answered."

"I was getting ready to go to bed. Sorry if I couldn't satisfy your every need. I only raised you for over two decades."

"Where's mom?"

"She's already sleeping."

She stepped in and ran a hand through her hair, brushing off some snowflakes.

Her father headed into the living room. "How can I serve you, officer? Once again."

"I know who Rorschach is," she said.

"Really? Who?"

"He's the marine we looked up."

"Well, that's some résumé he's got."

Diana exhaled as she took off her jacket, which felt a bit heavy on the right end. "I know. I confronted him."

"No surprise," he stretched, entering the kitchen. "You're a badass, Diana."

"Dad," she sighed. "He killed Delahunt. He killed Kirilenko, and maybe countless other criminals that I have no idea about."

Dan picked up a fruit. "Huh. So you're going to arrest him?"

"If I do, I don't stand a chance facing these Protectors."

He began munching on an apple thoughtfully, his eyes to the ceiling, pondering on what avenues she could take.

"Wait, they're the enemy now, for sure?"

"_Dad_," she firmly stated. "Lasko's dead."

Her father stopped chewing and swallowed the piece of apple.

"When?"

"Tonight. I have to take care of it tonight."

He looked down and sighed. "Jesus, honey. I'm so sorry."

"I want to look up the records again," she stated. "Somehow, the Rorschach thing is connected with the Protectors. Lasko was in with them, too. Something deep is going on. Like all the chess pieces moved and nobody knew."

Dan Dreiberg shook his head. "The database tracks down how many times it is logged in, and more importantly, the times of day. We go in now, it'll pop up on the radar, spook some people out."

"You can't bypass that?"

"No. I tried back in the day, and they might have some much more sophisticated security now. Can we try tomorrow? You look so tired."

Diana bit her lip.

"Sit down. Sit down," he gestured over to a seat by the dinner table. "Want anything to drink?"

"Water."

Nodding, her father walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it up with ice and water from the dispenser built into the refrigerator. She put her jacket on the table, and knew she wasn't tired—or at least, wasn't in any mood to do some resting. Perhaps her father was right, though. He was one of the greatest detectives ever, being a superhero and all, as well as teaming up with Rorschach back in the day. She remembered how he'd go on and on about the numerous cases they solved together. To him, it seemed like those moments were so long ago—and they were, but when he spoke of them, it seemed as though he was referring to a past life or some sorts. Like he tried to hold on to them. The more he tried, the more isolated he felt from those days. Maybe he missed them, maybe he didn't. She didn't want to ask.

She saw a photograph of the "Crimebusters" hanging on the wall, like an odd mark in the life of Sam Hollis, his assumed identity.

He delivered the cold glass of water and gave her a warm smile.

"Do you miss it?" she asked.

The man looked over his shoulder at the photograph. "We had our times. I miss it a little bit, but what's over is over."

"Wonder what it would've been like."

He raised an eyebrow. "What, to be a superhero? The last time you asked that question, you could barely reach the cookie jar."

"Must've been liberating."

"It was," he said. "Riding into the night, looking for the bad guys. Taking them out your own way. Felt like no one could stop you—like you were invincible. When the Keene Act was put into place, we had to face the truth."

"Truth?"

"The world doesn't need superheroes."

She sipped on her water, the conversation somewhat easing the tension that rattled her body. "You believed that."

"I believe that things change only when we choose to change them," he answered, looking away. "It broke up the whole crew. Destroyed my reality. Lost confidence in myself. The only people still legal to work were Eddie and Jon, and they worked for the government. Eddie, because he always did their dirty work, and Jon, because, well you know."

"Could he really power up an entire city with his fists?" she asked, curious as a child.

"Jon was something else," he shrugged. "I'm sure the government lost a lot of good men after Jon left, putting them through reactive fields and whatnot. Nothing quite like standing in his presence."

"And Rorschach?"

"Same as I've always said. He's insanely reactionary, anti-commie, stubborn, tough, unforgiving, but incredibly sharp. Out here in the streets, if you had pit him against the other Crimebusters, he'd win any day. That is, until he lost his mind. Your Rorschach any different?"

"Not sure yet," she rolled her eyes. "Ruthless, but not crazy. He's not into politics. Freaking jerk is what he is."

"That bad, huh?"

"For a guy whose head used to be way up his ass, he's got some mouth on him when it comes to trading words," she shook her head.

Her father chuckled. "Sounds like Rorschach to me. Is he as touchy as Rorschach is?"

"I'd be lucky if he were touchy; it would at least mean that I could get to him," she explained.

"Like a stone, huh?"

"He's killed a lot of people. People that I really don't mind being dead, but…" she shrugged. "I don't know if I can trust him."

"What does your gut say?"

She took a breath and a slow, thoughtful sip of water, feeling the cold liquid move down her esophagus and into her stomach.

"We've got the same problems," she answered cryptically, shooting a troubled glance at him. Not knowing who her allies or enemies were induced an irritating sensation of anxiety.

Clang.

Both Diana and her father looked up towards the ceiling. She immediately tensed up.

"I think that's just your mother again," he said reassuringly, already halfway towards the stairs. "I'll go see what the ruckus is about."

When he approached the stairs, Laurie had already traveled down the first flight, her footsteps repeating like a machinegun. Instantly, Diana felt a sense of urgency; she hoped it was nothing.

"Laurie, what's going on?" Dan asked.

She marched right past him as she descended down the second flight of stairs, an irritated look about her. It was with every intention that she was headed towards the window, though Diana didn't know why.

"Those damned kids," she said, scooting past a couch, the fringes of her nightgown gliding through the cold air. "I think they're throwing rocks at our house again."

Laurie reached the curtains and lightly lifted them aside to peak out the window.

"Laurie…"

As they continued, Diana nearly flinched when the sound of a phone went off. She knew it wasn't hers because the ringtone was different. And she knew it wasn't her parents' either because the ring was coming from her jacket sitting right next to her on the table. Cautiously, she rifled through her own pockets, wondering what kind of nonsense was happening. The conversation between her mother and father was bordering on comic as they made big deals of such insignificant little things; at least, compared to the things she was dealing with. Diana reached for the right pocket and felt the plastic casing of the ringing cell phone and lifted it out carefully—it could've been a bomb for all she knew. It was a somewhat obsolete phone, probably released a few years ago, but it definitely wasn't hers. She looked at the calling number and it seemed to be a number that the phone didn't recognize. Carefully, Diana slid open the phone and put it to her ear. She hoped it wouldn't explode or anything.

"Hello?"

She could hear the roaring of an engine, the breathing of exasperation.

_ "They followed you."_

Her eyes zipped to her parents. Her mother opened the curtains to have a better look at what was happening outside while her father was trying to placate her. Too often, whenever she had an outburst, Dan was always there to calm her down. And when Dan felt weak, she was there to fire him up. They complemented each other all too well.

"What?" she said weakly.

_ "Stay away from the windows."_

Across the kitchen and into the living room, Laurie had her eyes glued to the window. "I've got you, you little rats. Where are you?"

"Honey, please."

"I don't want them trampling all over my garden again."

She returned to the phone. "Why?"

Laurie let out a grunt of anger. "I'll get them next time. Set up one of those traps—"

The window suddenly shattered into tiny pebbles and she fell backwards onto the coffee table. Diana dropped the phone and watched her father flinch at the unexpected surprise. It took just a moment as he gathered himself before he began to whimper. She kept her eyes on her mother. She wasn't getting up. Blood was beginning to pool on the coffee table.

"Oh, _God_," her father cried as he approached the table. "Laurie! Laurie! Get up! No!"

Diana slowly approached the table to view what had happened, and she saw the hole in her mother's chest—right in the sternum. A kill shot. Her father seemed too shocked to be shedding any tears, and instead was persistent on waking up her mother. The moment seemed to blur as she tried to gather herself. What had just happened?

"Mom…?"

As she spoke, her knees immediately dropped their strength. She collapsed, falling in front of the table onto her knees to look at the woman who had given birth to her, her reality falling into disarray, like someone had just smashed her head with a cement block. A few seconds later, her father began to cry, his hands gripping her arm, tired from shaking her awake. Laurie's angelic expression was preserved. The clouds from the snowstorm had subsided and the moonlight shone one last time on the Silk Spectre, who had become fond of the moon, who fell into the arms of the night which cradled her, keeping her safe. But this time, the night had failed, and the moon could only lament.

Her father looked up at her eyes and closed them slowly, tears moving down his cheeks.

Then, he was shot next.

He let out a grunt of pain and fell to the ground. Following, another bullet whizzed by, missing him by inches as he barely rolled out of the way into safety.

"Dad?" she stood up.

"Sniper!" her father shouted.

She ran towards him to inspect his wound.

"You okay?"

He looked up, resting on the ground, and shook his head.

It didn't take long for her to spot the wound—right into the spine. The shot must've severed his nerves. With watery eyes, she looked up at her father.

Dan cried out in pain. "I…_can't feel_ my legs."

She tried to snap out of her emotional state and get to thinking. "I…I'll call backup."

"Phone's over there," he said, regaining some composure. "Take it, then go to the basement. The pass code is 1985. You'll be safe there."

"But what about you—"

"—there's NO TIME for me!" he barked. "If they are who you think they are, we won't stand a chance here."

They were probably already on their way here. She could hear footsteps outside and, more importantly, spot silhouettes headed towards their house.

"_Dad_," she commanded with a stronger voice. "I won't let you die."

"The only person who can solve this is you. No more arguing. Go!"

She traded gazes with her father one last time, a tear already dropping down her cheek.

"I'll be back for you. I'll get them," she stated, almost vindictively. Diana gave her father a kiss on his forehead. "I'll turn off the lights."

After that, she sprinted off towards the basement entrance, where she quickly dialed in the pass code. To the left of her were the light switches; she flipped the switches to the lights downstairs, and a chill followed the embrace of the black. She could hear her father crawl around, as well as footsteps near the windows. The door beeped and unlocked. Diana gripped the handle and slid the door open, which led her into a descending corridor.

But she knew it was too late. If she were to go down into the basement now, her father would most certainly die. These were the people who killed Lasko, too, because she found the same wound pattern on her mother. Diana checked her XD9 once again and drew it from its holster, unlocking the safety. This would be the first time she uses her pistol in the line of duty.

She took a breath and removed her shoes, which would grant her a tad more discretion in the dark.

Diana hid inside one of the guest rooms, turning on a very dim light, hoping that it'd be a worthwhile distraction. She also pulled out her pocket knife and went to one of the windows, lifting it up to show the screen, and cut it open. After, she hopped out the window and into their backyard. She might be able to get a better vantage point there. While she moved along the side of the house, she could hear them smashing in through the front door, their LED flashlights breaking through the darkness, scanning for their prey. They paced like wolves searching for sheep, the thirst of blood aching to be quenched; almost desperate. She could feel that they're not in terrific shape, either, by the way they moved—determined, but frailly.

Her father was nowhere in sight. Did he conceal himself? Diana scooted her way to the sliding door in the backyard and cautiously opened it, hoping that the moonlight wouldn't give her away. Luckily, the two weren't in sight, so she slid in unnoticed. This angle might put her at better odds against them. Sneaking back towards the main area to get a view, she carefully aligned herself against the wall, moving with her gun at the ready. If they were here, then they were probably going to be looking for her father. She remembered what Dan had told her about Lasko giving away information about her family. A peek into the area she escaped yielded nothing. The lights were gone. Where'd they go?

No sounds. Nothing. The silence was getting louder.

Then, she picked up a very faint noise coming from behind her, so close and so personal. Her bloodstream froze. She could feel the air brush the surface of her skin as the body to her side dragged itself behind her, ready to finish her off, comparable to a lion sinking its teeth into a defenseless gazelle.

Not quite defenseless.

Diana immediately threw a random elbow strike backwards and managed to hit something—and managed to catch it off-guard. She turned around and noticed the slim figure against the moonlight. It was that woman they called Tribal in the television. Sarah Price. She took too long to process the person in front of her, however, and Price retorted with a strike of her own, thrusting her palm into Diana's chest, simulating a feeling of falling onto a sharp rock. Diana ignored the pain and tried to aim her gun, but just before she pulled the trigger, Price knocked her arm away and the gun discharged a round into the ceiling. She was too fast. Easily, she disarmed Diana with a hasty close-combat maneuver, then slammed a knee into her abdomen, sending her backwards into a nearby wall.

The only light in the room came from the moonlight spilling in through the half-open sliding door.

Price put both hands on Diana's pistol after she successfully snatched it and instantly pulled it apart, the slide detached. She tossed the gun aside. Diana stood back up and waited for her to move, and in response, the hostile woman reached to her side, pulling out a knife and assuming a combat stance. Before Diana could act, Price closed the distance between them and made a diagonal slice that could have torn across her chest, but she put up her arms to take the slash instead. She felt the blade move right through the fabric of her long-sleeve shirt and into her skin, creating minor lacerations. Diana grunted took a step back, but the woman didn't relent; she continued with another slash that barely missed her. As a reaction, she tossed a fist that landed on Price's jaw, and it was so well-timed that it rattled the woman for a second. Having an opening, Diana tried to disarm the woman with a judo hip toss, and surprisingly, it worked. Price flipped over and slammed on the hardwood floor with surprising force, and Diana knocked the knife from her hand. However, Tribal was well-conditioned. A second later, she reacted with a kick that landed upside Diana's head, knocking her senseless as it was a surprise attack. Diana collapsed and landed on the ground, dazed. The woman stood up—she couldn't even see her face—and reached to the holster securely belted on her hip. A pistol was produced, and Diana's heart skipped. Price brought the barrel of the handgun up, and with her other hand, drew a sound suppressor. She began screwing the metal cylinder onto the gun in rhythmic intervals, like a clock's second hand, like they were Diana's last seconds.

To her left, the sliding door was visible, but the moonlight that poured in was now blocked. A silhouette stood in the way, but Diana could barely make it out. Price finished, the suppressor tightly wound onto the threaded barrel. She prepared for death. This must have been what the Rorschach clones felt when they were killed: confused, angry, distraught, terrified, and most of all, empty, like an anticlimactic punch line.

The silhouette suddenly gripped the sliding door and slammed it open with violent force, and caught Tribal's attention. Following, the silhouette aimed its gun and squeezed two rounds into her chest—a double tap—shattering the bone and anything beneath it. The sheer stopping power of the bullets sent her backwards, falling onto the wood floor rather softly, like a child who lost his balance and stumbled. Death was quick and easy. Diana noticed the coldness in the room from having left the screen door open, but it had no effect on her. She was already cold inside-out. Tribal's breath lingered through the air one last time before dissipating.

Rorschach put away the Comedian's 1911 custom and walked up to Diana, putting out a hand. She was much too shocked to realize that he was here, in the flesh.

"Anyone hurt?"

She couldn't process his words, but put her hand into his. Abruptly, he hauled her up and inspected her, checking for wounds of any sort. When he noticed that there wasn't anything wrong, he looked up, rather irritated that she was mentally unable to answer at the moment.

"Where's Daniel?"

"Uh…"

Behind his shoulder, she saw a shadow raise a gun.

Diana shoved Rorschach out of the way and as the gun discharged, she spun backwards and dropped to the ground.

She could hear an angry grunt as Rorschach charged the shooter, whom she guessed was the Gladiator, as he was the final Protector (alive), but couldn't quite see. The pain began to ache on her left shoulder and she tried to fight the sensations. She checked the wound and realized that it wasn't severe, and she could still move. But she had to find a gun. Rorschach probably needed help—she could hear the fighting just feet away from her. Blows landing, bones crunching, and the sound of the silenced pistol that shot her going off nearly overwhelmed her senses. She stood up and dragged herself to the light switches after picking up Tribal's handgun. A bullet whizzed by and nearly hit her, instead traveling right into a vase behind her, shattering it completely. Following that, she heard someone's bone snap, sounding like someone had stepped on a large dead branch. Then she heard the bodies collapsing to the floor.

The blows were less constant now, and it seemed to be one person throwing the punches repeatedly. Left. Right. Left. Right. The enraged blows were sprinkled with the sounds of blood being regurgitated from a gargling mouth that groaned incoherent noises. It was an opportune moment to shoot the Gladiator. With her blood stained fingers, she flipped the switch and lights flooded the room.

"Stop…"

Diana aimed the pistol with the utmost intention to shoot, but those intentions were soon disappointed. Rorschach, sitting on top of the Gladiator, yanked his fist backwards to deliver another punch to the bloodied assassin, painting the scenery around him with the fresh blood that flew violently from his stained leather glove. In her short few years in the department, she had never seen such violence.

"Stop!" she exclaimed hoarsely, weakened from the wound on her shoulder.

Rorschach peered over his shoulder and let down his fist. Underneath him, the Gladiator didn't even seem conscious anymore. His ferocious, short breaths began to normalize as soon as he looked down at the man, bloodied and beaten, twitching like a dog that had been run over by a vehicle, left to die in the indifferent winter snow. The breeze that infiltrated through the open screen door picked up. He rose from the body with the mangled face, his fists releasing from their clenches, and looked over towards Diana.

"Hands up, Rorschach," she said.

He wiped the blood off his gloves with some paper towels on the counter.

"Now's not the time," he said. "Need to find Daniel."

Rorschach marched into the darkness and searched for Walter's old comrade while Diana flipped the lights back on. He noticed the old man seated on a chair at the table with a bloody bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in front of him. The floor indicated that he had dragged himself there, since it was plastered with blood spots. The man took a shot and burped lightly, a sensation of exasperation and loss poisoning his expression.

"Spine?"

Daniel Dreiberg nodded.

Diana came back, a hand wrapped around her arm, and joined them.

"Dad…"

Rorschach sensed that she was going to break into tears, and decided to cut her off before she could do so. It wasn't needed right now.

"Call the police," he ordered. "Get an ambulance."

She didn't budge.

"Hey."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared right into her eyes which were watered and afraid. The ink blots were calm.

"Save your father."

Diana swallowed and nodded, regaining composure of herself, and took out her cell phone. In the meantime, Rorschach left them and returned to the Gladiator, who was probably dying. He was somewhat taken aback by how much punishment this soldier endured. When he stood over the body, though, he was in no mood for reflection.

"Why are you looking for Veidt?" Rorschach asked calmly.

The faux superhero spat out blood that rolled down his cheek and looked up at his enemy.

"We are the same," the Gladiator articulated. "Servants."

"I serve no one."

"I'm happy," he said. "He never thought you'd get this far."

"Who? Veidt?"

He chuckled. "No. Veidt always had faith in you, even before we were forced against him."

"Veidt was Darian Alexander," Rorschach stated. "Means you work for someone I know. Only person I know who associated with Veidt was Bronstein."

Blood dripped from the operative's mouth as he cackled lightly.

"So answer my first question."

"Bronstein's on a goose chase. We're just following his orders."

Rorschach tilted his head just a bit.

"He wanted to find Veidt's contact, who has his final data and conclusions. On you. He went outside of Langley's jurisdiction."

"So you're not looking for Veidt."

"Veidt's dead."

The ink blots froze.

"When?"

"Got him a few weeks ago," Gladiator replied. "Swiftly. Owed him that much. The media thinks he left for some hiking trip."

Veidt must have put the data somewhere else, which was why they had been looking for any leads, disregarding Rorschach along the way. They came to Diana's parents for the obvious connection to the old Ozymandias. The only question now was where the data was located; Rorschach wanted to know just exactly what Veidt was doing, and perhaps even why.

"Hey," Gladiator said. "My face hurts. Make it quick, won't you?"

Rorschach drew his pistol and fired two rounds into his chest. From across the room, Diana looked over, but was not bothered. He stared at the dead body, manipulated to act against those who its master chose. Such was the life of a pawn.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated. He brought it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dan. It's Seymour," said a gruff voice.

Seymour probably had something to do with this, too. After all, it was he who dropped the journal in his car, and he who directed him to find the mask. The timing was impeccable.

"What is it?"

"Head to Veidt Tower."

"Why?"

"That's all I was told to tell you. I'm supposed to hang up, man. I'm sorry."

"Wait—"

Seymour hung up.

Rorschach stepped over to the window to get a view of Manhattan, as well as the impressive clock tower that stood nearly as tall as the New Empire State Building. A light emitted from the clock faces, much brighter than usual. Something was happening there. With nearly all leads cut off, Rorschach knew that it was the only place he could go. He put away his pistol and walked back to Diana. She had been at her father's side the entire time, but when he approached, she stood up and faced him.

"I'm going," Rorschach said.

"Where?"

"Final place. I'm going to find the answers."

"I'm coming," she insisted. "I need to get to the bottom of this."

"Tend to your father."

She turned to her dad.

"I'll be fine, Diana," he said.

Rorschach looked down at Dreiberg. "Could or could not be dangerous. Wouldn't take that risk, Daniel."

"It's her call."

He looked back at Diana, who had already patched up her arm. It didn't look too bad.

"I won't compromise," she said, her eyes hardened and determined.

Maybe there was a bit of superhero in her, after all. But it was still foolish.

"Where are your keys?"

She walked to the table and snatched the keys off the surface.

"You're driving, though," she said.

Rorschach shook his head as he received the keys. "I'm always pampering you."

Daniel chuckled a bit and she rolled her eyes. As they headed out to the vehicle, Rorschach felt a strong sense of confusion, like his actions had not entirely been chosen by his own will. He felt useless to an extent. Though it was getting close to morning, the night was still not over; not until he got to the clock tower. Rorschach sat in the driver's seat and shut the door, gripping the steering wheel. Diana sat next to him, and after she closed her door, she gave him a glance. Dan reached for the bottom of his mask and lifted it, removing the entire thing and stuffing it into his pocket, and in a way, this startled her. He set his fedora aside and started the engine. The clock tower seemed bluish in the night.

He ran a hand through his hair and gazed at her, somewhat apologetic for what had happened. Then, they drove off.

**One chapter left. I don't plan to take long, so stay tuned. Hope you enjoyed it!**


	15. Black Revival

**Finally, it's finished. I think this story took so long, because, like Dan, I had changed a lot from the moment I began writing the first paragraph. The focus of the character was just originally going to be like Rorschach, but as I wrote more, it began to change. As I entered college (and believe me, there's little writing time in college), I began to change a lot, as evidenced by my last chapter submitted.**

**At first, Rorschach was but a man who could do to criminals what we wished we could do, but as I changed myself, I saw him a little differently. I wanted to evolve the idea of the character into something much more profound, and along the way, I may have missed a few details.**

**This is the final chapter of the story, and I promised to you guys that I'd finish it. So here you go, guys. Thanks for sticking with it this long.**

**Chapter 15: Black Revival**

He lit his cigarette and took a drag. As he exhaled, the smoke was immediately swept away by the dust and air that blasted towards him from a nearby helicopter. On the counter was a radio that was tuned in to some sort of classical station. Normally, the marines would be blasting their heavy metal or rap, but Dan enjoyed the time he had alone, breaking off from the usual. He didn't care for music much.

"What the hell is this shit?"

Benitez came in and leaned against the counter with his shirt off, looking like he had just come back from shooting hoops with some of the guys. He read Dan's expression and noticed the vulnerability. It had only been a few days since a girl's head had exploded in his arms.

"Hey," he said. "Pick yourself up before SM gets here."

The sergeant major (nicknamed SM by the platoon) often came around to yell at the troops about their uniforms. Most were pissed off and annoyed whenever he came around, but Dan understood why he did it. It kept the men pissed off—in a killing mood. The sergeant major punished marines who were emotionally vulnerable, and it was, most of the time, humiliating for everyone.

"When I was young, I played baseball. Out of all the kids on the team who'd use metal bats at practice, my dad would always make me use the wood ones. At practice, kids that were smaller than me would slam home runs. It took me a long time to get there with the damned wood bat," Dan stated.

Benitez shrugged. "I was a pitcher."

"My dad told me it'd be better off in the long run. He said that full dedication is a principle that few people have any more."

The chopper left the base and what was left was the light desert breeze, blowing warm air on his dry face.

"Other than that, I don't remember much about him. He left soon afterwards."

Benitez seemed to be waiting for an explanation, but didn't want to interrupt Dan's mental vent.

"All life ever does is test you on your principles," he said. "I've killed a lot of people in my time here."

"We've all done our share."

He stared off into the distance. "Maybe."

"Why did you try to protect her?" Benitez asked suddenly.

* * *

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

He sped through the yellow light, his gloves creaking as he gripped the wood grain steering wheel, staining it with dry, crusty blood.

"You hate this city," she continued, answering her question. "You're just a terrorist."

"I thought the city was the problem, too," he said. "But truth is, I hated that my life meant nothing. I was angry. More naïve than I had presumed. The past month and a half all I did was hurt people."

She remembered meeting him for the first time. He was timid, reclusive, and unsociable; the perfect picture of a war veteran that had slipped through the cracks of American society. It was difficult to spot the pressure tightening underneath his bored composure. There was so much more, now. In many ways, he resembled the Rorschach that her father used to tell her about in his many stories of the Golden Age of Superheroes. But Dan wasn't the Rorschach that Walter was, and in a way she liked it much more. From what it seemed, Walter would have been much too difficult to work with.

"This was something I had to do," he told her. "Because I got tired of sitting in that damned cab, night after night, watching the world around me melt away. Just look around you."

People were still out on the streets and cars moved back and forth. Distant lamps blinked and flickered, frying the city with explosions of light. From the skies, it probably looked like a beehive.

"No one cares. Too busy with bad habits and irresponsibility, angry at their useless lives, and lost in the little bubble of backwards rationalizations. No one stops to listen."

She had felt similarly about the city that she hadn't known very well yet. Diana watched the streetlights zip across the window.

"How far would you have gone, Diana, if it wasn't the Protectors who killed your mother?"

A tear immediately began to form. The emotional rollercoaster of the car ride left her in a fragile state.

"Would you have gone as far as I had?" he asked.

She sniffled. "I would have killed her killers myself. I would have arrested them. I would have put them in jail for the rest of their lives."

"Do you think it would change anything?"

His last few words confused her. What point was he trying to get across by opposing her statements?

"I guess it wouldn't," she muttered, another tear streaming down her cheek.

"Not compromising means you can find the strength to continue fighting. Revenge for a murder is understandable, but being able to pull yourself back together…"

She glanced at him, wondering why he didn't finish his sentence.

"I'll let you know when I've done so."

* * *

"There. I've done it."

The stern man flipped through the pamphlet, which was slightly bent after having been perused so often.

"Your mother approve of this?"

He nodded.

Dan's father, a man of short stature but commanding presence, put down his reading glasses.

"I don't have to go through this to know. You're going to be like your cousin?"

"Yeah, but I get to kill people," he remarked sarcastically. One of his cousins was in the Air Force, with another planning to join the Army very soon.

A slight scowl twitched its way onto his father's face, and his father looked away. It was all too familiar: the awkward silences, the lack of communication, and the exasperation of both parties. Now they were just going through the motions once again, and Dan was expecting his dad to unleash a torrent of frustrated lectures while subtly degrading his self-esteem in the process.

"What?" Dan spoke up after a moment. "No comment? No preaching?"

His dad took a breath, and was awfully calm about himself. "You don't want to try your community college? Even after failing out of Veidt U?"

"So I can be like you one day?"

"Come on, Daniel," his father muttered, dropping his head a bit. "It was never about me. I only pushed you because I felt like you needed direction."

Dan slightly rolled his eyes and glanced out the window of his father's apartment.

"But I laid off, didn't I? After I saw you fail, time and time again, I laid off," he reasoned. "But what did you do after that? You got into Veidt University, and you screwed it up. You failed again."

He bit his lip and took slow breaths, his father's words easily opening wounds that hadn't healed.

"How could it be my fault that you failed?"

And once again, his father was winning the argument.

"You squandered every chance and opportunity you got. You need to start taking responsibility for yourself if you want to make it through in this world."

"I know," Dan said.

"I support this decision," his father said. "I always said the military would straighten you out. Maybe this is what's best for you right now. Do you have a plan?"

He choked back a few tears from his father's last few statements and nodded. "Just want to do my tours and get out. And maybe get a job or go back to school."

"That's a start. You talk to a recruiter yet?"

"I've already gone through with the decision. I hit boot camp in the spring."

His father's expression altered just slightly.

"I just wanted to see what you'd think of it," Dan said, somewhat smugly.

"Hopefully you get shipped out to Europe or Thailand or something."

He shook his head. "No. Middle East. I'm going to kill hadjis."

Every single word that came out of his mouth was intentionally directed to provoke his father's anger, and Dan, himself, was surprised how often he did it. It almost became an automatic reaction to fulfill some sort of conditioned subconscious satisfaction on his part. Dan, however, did not like to look into his emotions much. However, his dad was in no mood to partake in such egotistical banter.

"Danny, you don't understand," his dad stated, rubbing his forehead. "I know I messed up here and there, but it isn't about me. I think you did this—you came here—to try to hurt me. And son, I'm damned hurt."

For some reason, the admittance wasn't as satisfying as Dan thought it'd be.

"If you're just signing up to spite me or your mother, then I don't want you to go. Don't do it. Hating us for raising you wrong is not a good reason for going to war. It'll make you a dead man, and I don't want to have to bury my child over something like that."

His words were sobering. Dan crossed his arms and felt his body tensing up.

"In a way, I think you're asking for death, and that's wrong. By God, with every fiber of my body, and on your grandmother's grave—bless her soul—that's more wrong than you can ever be," his father continued. "Don't you understand that?"

For Dan, however, he realized himself that doing this was much more than just making his family angry. He wouldn't have done it if it was only for that reason, because he, too, thought it was incredibly stupid.

"What do you want out of this?" his dad asked.

* * *

Dan sighed. "All I ever wanted in my sorry ass life was a direction."

He pulled into the parking lot of the New Empire State Building, nicknamed Veidt Tower by the public because of his generous donations towards its construction. It wasn't as bustling as it was in the day, but there were still some people out. He parked the vehicle on the first floor.

"I never knew I'd go down this route," he said as he pulled the parking brake.

They exited the vehicle and entered the lobby floor, the marble coated walls glistening as they walked past other New Yorkers. Dan guessed that it wasn't possible to reach the top floor from the elevator. They would probably have to find a different way.

"You're here."

He turned to see the man who had patted his shoulder.

"You've been MIA the past few weeks," Dan replied. "Was it always your intention to drop that journal in my cab?"

"Not mine," Seymour smiled apologetically. "He's willing to see you."

"Who? Veidt?"

"No. Veidt's dead."

There was somewhat of a sinking feeling in his stomach. Dan had always imagined Veidt being the one tugging the strings, moving the chess pieces with the boldest intent. Perhaps the Gladiator hadn't lied after all. Seymour directed them towards the elevator and handed them a key that would allow them to access the top floor. Dan wasn't in any mood to ask any more questions from him. It was time to go up. The elevator hummed as he inserted the key into the slot, twisting it and allowing it to activate. It began to move as they were pulled upwards on the thick cables supporting them.

"Veidt's…dead?" Diana asked.

The building seemed endless. Dan didn't want to process that fact at the moment, and couldn't take Seymour's word for it, either.

"I think there's more to it than that," he answered. "Let's hope so."

"Why's that?"

* * *

"Because hope can do anything for you. If you let it."

Nadine rested next to him, running a finger down his abdomen, a sensual gesture that sent small chills down his back. She stalked her way up to his face and planted a kiss on him. He wondered what it must have felt like for her to slave her body out to other men for a living. Though she was clean, for sure, the act of sexual slavery just wasn't logically comprehensible to him.

In reaction, Dan playfully tickled her and caused her to laugh hysterically. After awhile, the laughter subsided and he gave her a smile, kissing her once more.

"Why do you do what you do?"

It was an unexpected question.

"You mean, like being a marine?"

"Killing people."

"I chose to do this."

She rested her chin on his chest. "You haven't answered my first question."

Her eyes communicated such curiosity, staring at the abyss with neither fear nor hesitation.

"Because I fucked up in school and had nowhere else to go."

"Really? I don't remember school being that hard. I had straight A's before I was taken away."

"Nah, it wasn't that."

Nadine was one of the few people he had met in his life that did not judge with her glance. The kind of innocence that radiated from her was the kind that could attract thousands of men. It was part of her charisma, and Dan made a note that this kind of behavior was quite integral to being valued in a social relationship, though he knew that his life made no space for being non-judgmental. As a marine, he was always constantly thinking of killing terrorists had to stay prejudiced.

"I didn't feel like my own man," he said, in his best words.

"I don't understand. So you came here to kill people so you could feel better about yourself?"

He swallowed. "No. I was going nowhere, so I came here."

"And now your purpose is to kill?"

"Yeah," he said, not denying what he did.

She thought about it for a second, then looked away.

"It's not the best way to live. But it is a way."

As a marine, he could do nothing else but kill, though the kind of mentality drilled into him throughout his previous tours was often that of "end the problem as fast as possible." For reasons that he couldn't fathom, he had learned a bevy of tricks throughout his military career that went beyond the job description. He might as well have gotten extra pay for doing pretty much what Force Recon marines did.

"You don't worry about all the bad things that you do? You don't think about going to hell?"

He chuckled. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because the day you things that I do, you're already going to hell," he answered. "So I don't think about it."

"When you get back stateside, we should meet up together."

But he knew it would be a long time before he would get back. As far as he knew, he was already in hell.

"What if we don't see each other again?" he asked.

"We'll see each other," she assured. "If not in this life, in the next one."

She rubbed his nose playfully.

"Don't worry, Dan. You'll come around someday."

Though simple, her words struck chords with him. The sun poked through the window, cut by the blinds, beaming on top of their bare bodies. The air was still and the room seemed vivid, surreal.

"It's like you're asleep. When you wake up, you'll come around."

* * *

It took several minutes, but when the last floor was highlighted, there was a pause. The elevator moved up one more floor, and as it did, a mesmerizing blue light began to spill in through the crack. As it completely filled the doorway, Dan felt his back shiver, since this was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

The door opened.

He was standing with his back towards them, staring contentedly at the multiple screens and monitors that were stacked on top of one another. The blue aura that he emitted was surreal, encapsulating everything around it, swallowing the room in its might. They took a few steps forward, eyeing the station that Veidt had constructed atop his tower, a completely different place than his office back at the Veidt Industries Building.

"I'm glad you came," a soft, monotonous voice spoke.

Diana already knew who it was, and was in disbelief that he was here. It was strange, standing in the presence of God or enlightenment. The atmosphere felt so ethereal yet chillingly sobering, as if all life force was concentrated into the mass in the center of the room; the god was like a black hole in the middle of space, absorbing all that was around it. For Dan, it was somewhat humbling, just having a glance at the former man-turned-deity, and at an instant, he had lost his train of thought. His emotional spikes flat-lined and all that existed was the present, the only place that could provide the conditions for clarity of mind. There was a long pause; Dan had trouble retaining his focus, but he eventually did, and took one more step.

"Why did you bring me here?"

The blue man did not move, his arms crossed. It was almost as if he was savoring the words that were just spoken to him.

"Because you deserve to know why he did this to you."

"What did you do to Veidt?"

Dr. Manhattan turned around, his piercing bright eyes staring deep into Dan's. Dan did not flinch.

"It does not matter. He is with me now, and we share our knowledge, our wisdom together. We share our successes. Our failures. He brought me here because he had found his answer. He wanted to make the world _whole_ again," Manhattan said. "He fought for it. They all did. But there is nothing to be made whole. It does not end. I told him so long ago, but he did not listen. It took him over twenty years to finally understand."

"Understand what?"

"All that you fight for does not exist," the blue deity insisted. "There is no fight. A fight implies that there is an end. You do not yet understand."

Dan watched him walk towards the desk and pop open a drawer with files in them.

"You, Daniel Lee, are special, but not that special," Manhattan said. "Back in the nineties, Adrian tried to get into Langley's Intelligence Support Activity agent conditioning programs with his own agent training program, but to no avail. His name was too widely recognized and he did not succeed. Near the end of the decade, a man by the name of Arthur Solosky, who went by the name of Bronstein, desired more unique operators that would rival the CIA's top agents. His suspected intentions were to appeal to superiors and cement a legacy in the intelligence community. Bronstein's ear had caught word of Veidt's training program, and learned that it was going to be a full replication of the vigilante known as Rorschach."

The blue man shut his eyes for a quick moment.

"When Bronstein and I got the green light for our program, we called it Black Revival," he said, his tonality somewhat changing.

Manhattan waved his hand at the screen and an interface appeared. Several faces flashed onto the screen, and Diana even recognized a few of them.

"We selected candidates based on specific criteria that took me several years to figure out. I delved into the mind of Walter Kovacs. I flipped through his journals, his old news accounts—anything that would help me understand what exactly drove him so much."

He paced to one end of the screen setup, eyeing various collected footage of the chosen people to undergo Black Revival.

"I thought I had known so much. For all that Rorschach had been through, I believed he deserved this. I was happy."

* * *

"But happiness never lasts."

"What does?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Dedication. Will. Duty."

Alex was hurt.

"And do we find happiness through that? Do we find some kind of end?"

He shrugged. "I don't think there is. We do what we have to because we must. We do it forever. We sacrifice to serve something greater than ourselves. I never understood what duty meant when I was in the Corps."

She backed off just a bit more until she sat on the back end of the couch behind her, still at his eye level.

"I think that's naïve."

Dan took a breath, his attitude impartial. "You may be right about that."

It was a blow-off, a way to keep himself unreactive to her statements. He knew that she was trying to elicit an emotional response from him, but also knew that anger was the wrong emotional response anyhow. So, he chose no route and remained neutral.

"Only the inexperienced share such a tilted view of things."

He somewhat smirked. "You're probably also right about that."

Now he was toying with her, and she giggled a bit. "Hey! Come on, I meant it. You've seen things. You don't look like the kind who generalizes."

"Only by choice. Makes going out there easier."

Alex shook her head and crossed her arms. "Ignorance is bliss."

He walked towards his kitchen and reached for the fridge. "That is where you're wrong."

Dan grabbed a beer, and offered her one, which she kindly accepted. The mood was somewhat lightening up, and it was refreshing to see that he had different dimensions to him rather than the usual one.

"Blue Moon," she remarked. "My favorite. You trying to get me drunk first?"

"Wouldn't have to do that."

She smiled.

"The world is usually opposed to your ignorance once you see it," he continued. "For me, it's just a present mindset. Keeps me sharp."

"Are you humbling your own ego right now?"

"Maybe so."

"Why?"

"The mindset I've had as of late has gotten me nowhere much and also shot. Not balanced enough."

Ignorance was, in fact, not bliss. Being detached from reality, being ungrounded, was not going to get anywhere, and Dan realized it. It claimed the second half of Kovacs's career as a vigilante, tossing him into extremism and radical notions. Despite the original Rorschach being ultimately helpful, in the long term, Dan was attuned enough to know that the old traits that were held by the hero were undesirable.

"I always had a deep sense that something was wrong, or missing," he told her. "My dreams are like cruel jokes, toying with me day and night sometimes. Sometimes it's the little girl who dies in my dream. Sometimes it's Nadine. On one occasion, I'll dream that we're making love in that dark little military shack. The next, I dream of blowing her brains out."

He took a sip of his beer, a cue that Alex took as slight discomfort. Sharing such personal information wouldn't be comfortable for anyone, but then again, Dan had no one else to talk to.

"For a time, I felt like life wasn't real. I still feel like Nadine was just a dream; slivers of happiness in my life were just dreamt up. Fabricated," he scoffed. "Of course, I was just going crazy, driving my little cab all day with no purpose or liveliness. I still feel guilty for a lot of things."

Alex closed in on him again.

"But now you're getting better. Each minute that passes is another minute that you could change something about yourself."

"Takes time," was all he said. "Self-destruction is the cure."

"Then you're born again," she grinned.

Rebirth. Dan gave her a genuine heartfelt look and suddenly felt a load of weight fall off his shoulders.

"I'm glad you listened," he said.

* * *

"Out of all the candidates that were chosen, you were the best choice," Manhattan said. "The experiences that we had put you through created enough leverage to push you in the right direction."

He blinked. "What?"

"It was all set up, Dan," Manhattan replied. "The training. The killing. It was all going in the right direction, until something happened that none of us could have anticipated. The girl."

The little girl whose head exploded all over his Kevlar was etched in his mind like a stone carving.

"When she died, the emotional leverage made you into our most driven and most effective candidate. It may seem like nothing to you, but you were one of the most impressive soldiers that we had ever seen, and on any given day, I could put you up against any of the Crimebusters, even Ozymandias. From there, we reconstructed a course plan that would put you through emotional torment. We isolated you, hurt you, took close ones away. We made you kill someone you loved."

Diana was in disbelief. Manhattan channeling Adrian Veidt was so merciless, so unforgiving.

"Then, we released you into the wild. New York City: my ultimate failure," the god stated. "It was my choice, and Bronstein did not take kindly to this. He disappeared back into fringe ISA operations, and I returned to my throne atop this tower, watching the city boil below me. When word came around that Bronstein was going to take the Black Revival performance report from me, I knew that it was the end. They nearly got me a few weeks back on a hiking trip. When I returned to New York unnoticed, I played my last card—the journal."

Rorschach's Journal, which Seymour 'accidentally' dropped in Dan's cab, was suddenly recalled into his mind. It seemed like so long ago.

"Bronstein found out very quickly, and deployed his best personal operators in one of the most public displays I can recall since our old days. Cpt. Neil Morgan, SSgt. Reed Armstrong, and Lt. Sarah Price. In addition to that, a recently trained sleeper agent, Pfc. Melina Benitez-Marks, was added due to a specific request. She assumed a fake identity as Alexis Roark, infiltrating the criminal underworld as a club singer to find any leads that might help Bronstein locate me. It was their goal this entire time. When you came along, they were presented with a problem. They knew you were going to get in their way and slow things down considerably, but they also didn't want to kill you. After your first brush with them, I grew concerned, so I deployed the other possible candidates in the city to distract the Protectors."

Diana knew he was talking about the impostors.

"Despite their deaths, I had faith you were going to recover and eliminate them because they posed such a threat to you. It would be the new Rorschach's ultimate test."

Dan didn't know whether to be angry, frustrated, or sad. Perhaps it was the combination of these feelings that produced a nearly frozen impression on his face.

"Looks like you got what you wanted, Veidt," Dan said.

But for some reason, the feelings subsided.

"But we all know that's not true."

"For someone who became the new Rorschach, you're not very angry at all this," Veidt's conscience added.

"That's because I know you felt guilty about it. And to live with that much blood on your hands and deny that you were wrong crushes the very thought that you are a savior," he said. "It hints at the fact that maybe, Adrian, maybe you are just a killer like the rest of us. You couldn't stomach the thought that you may have made the same mistake twice. The world's smartest man has the world's biggest ego, and you couldn't live with yourself."

Manhattan's face was unreactive, but Veidt's conscience underneath did not answer back.

"You didn't produce Rorschach, Adrian," Dan continued. "I became him because I chose to. But you didn't want Rorschach in the first place; you wanted Kovacs. And me, I take responsibility for everything that happened to me, and for everything that I do in the future, and I live with it. You wanted to reproduce someone like Walter Kovacs because he died for your crimes. In that process, more people died. The Silk-Spectre died tonight. Your former teammate—family."

Manhattan didn't have a reaction to this either, despite being romantically involved with her years earlier. His eyes flickered once again, and he looked around the room.

"I will be searching for her conscience, wherever it may have scattered," Manhattan stated. "Death is not the opposite of life, Daniel. It is simply the opposite of birth. Veidt still has much to learn, and one day, he may come to understand. For all that has happened, though, Daniel, I see hope in you."

"I thought you lost your humanity, Jon," he answered back.

"It never quite disappears," the blue man replied. "Your path has been long and arduous, but know that it doesn't end. Most heroes fight to make the world a better place, but you know more than anyone that the world cannot be fixed. It can only stay the way it is, the way it has always been, and all you ever wanted was to find your place in it—to be fulfilled knowing that what you are doing is worth fighting for. You and Kovacs have made Rorschach into a beautiful essence. Do you understand that?"

His eyes flickered. "Action moving through me. The black and white does not mean right and wrong, but eternity. Coexistence, always noticeable and changing, but never disappearing."

"Yes. Rorschach is as natural as a tsunami, as roots breaking its way through concrete. A force of nature, uncompromising. Do you see it now?"

Dan nodded, his purpose suddenly feeling much stronger.

"You still have much of a path to walk, but keep walking," Manhattan spoke. "And at some point, you will find peace."

Diana then stepped forward. "What about me…after everything that's happened…"

"You are the child of Daniel Dreiberg and Laurie Juspeczyk," he assured her. "Learn to trust yourself. You have a wonderful partner. Trust him, too."

"Where will you go now?" Dan asked Dr. Manhattan.

"I am everywhere," he said. "And nowhere."

"I'll see you when I die," he said. "Until then, I'll walk."

* * *

"I can't do that anymore, but I'm just glad I'm still alive."

Dan stood next to Daniel Dreiberg's recliner in the ICU, and he had brought flowers.

"Should've been there sooner, Daniel," he insisted. "I could've saved—"

"Look," Dreiberg insisted. "Laurie never liked Rorschach, but she would have told him the same thing. You had no control over what had happened. It's not your fault."

He took a slow breath and crossed his arms. "I know. It wasn't her time."

"We take our losses and we move on," the former Nite Owl told him. "That's what makes life special. It's our ability to love the present moment for what it is, but not stay attached to it. I wept for Laurie. But we have to move on, and make do with what he have now. We cannot waste our life _now_ on something we can't change."

Nite Owl was a wise man. Dan half-expected him to be incredibly bitter after these series of events, but he was surprised.

"You're right," Dan said. "You're very wise. Thank you."

"Now that Laurie's with Jon and I need to figure out how to be independent while paraplegic, I'd like to propose to you something," Nite Owl stated.

"Anything."

"Rorschach was always more effective with my technology," he said. "How about you let me be your eyes and ears around the city? You're obviously the only one that I can really trust. I can develop new tools for you and keep the city on watch."

Dan slightly chuckled at the thought. "Nite Owl and Rorschach teaming up again?"

"I'm not Nite Owl anymore. Call me the Watchman."

The thought of a more effective way to investigate crimes and patrol the city was very enticing, and Dan was immediately attracted to the offer. But, deeper down, he realized that Dan Dreiberg was trying to build a new life for himself—and perhaps a new family. He was suddenly reminded of a time when Nadine assured that he wasn't alone. This was, perhaps, a new beginning.

"It'd be an honor, Mr. Dreiberg."

"However," Daniel paused. "I have one condition."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Look after Diana. That's all I ask of you. I can no longer walk any more. I can't protect her."

As of this moment, Diana was back at the station, writing up a very wordy summary of her case to submit to the commissioner. She decided to keep the Manhattan part out of it, though, since it would cause much more unrest than there was now. It had hit him yesterday, as they said goodbye to Seymour, that though he had removed the Protectors, they hadn't even put a dent on the city's crime rates. On top of that, since Manhattan disappeared, Veidt's brand was suddenly removed from several aspects of the city, as though his influence had almost completely vanished. It caused dramatic stock drops, which in turn caused some turmoil on Wall Street. As for Veidt, as far as the people knew, he retired and disappeared from the states completely, but Dan and Diana knew exactly where he was.

"_Promise_ _me_," Daniel urged.

Dan looked into the older man's eyes, and nodded. "I'll watch out for her, Daniel. I promise."

* * *

She had her arms crossed, and didn't realize that she was actually doing it to keep herself warm. It was chilly up on the rooftop of her apartment, but there were no other places to meet. Diana moved towards one of the heat generators which gave off some warmth, causing her to put her arms down, relieved. It was snowing a bit less than last week, but the snow was picking up. It was getting late. She yawned and rubbed her hands together, her breath visible even in the somewhat dim light.

"Hurm."

She was somewhat frightened, gasping as he appeared next to her. Rorschach put away the grappling system attached to his forearm and slightly tilted his head, awaiting her words.

"Jeez, you scared me," she muttered. "You look good. Enjoying the toys that my dad's making for you?"

Rorschach nodded. "Very much. I also texted you my new address."

"He hooked you up with an apartment, too?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Call it company housing. I work for him now."

Diana was amused. "Aw, I thought you loved your old job."

"I'm going to miss those empty heroin needles stuffed in the back seats," he delivered in a deadpan fashion.

"And the loose condoms. Let's not forget about that."

"You definitely wouldn't."

Her mouth dropped open. The ink blots on his mask stopped moving, and he tilted his head again. She stared at him for a second, then cracked a smile.

"Alright. Let's get to work, Rorschach," she said, easing up.

He reached into his coat and produced a phone, handing it to her. "Custom made by your dad. Wouldn't lose sight of it if I were you, otherwise you won't be able to call me to keep you company anymore."

"Mm-hmm," she replied, accepting the phone and brushing off his comment.

"What's the status in Manhattan?"

"More domestic issues," she told him. "Not much there, really, unless of course, we can still hook up that heroin conspiracy theory to it."

Rorschach rubbed his chin. "Sounds ridiculous. Let's go after something more tangible."

"We still have the gangsters to regulate. They're more under the table now, but it honestly doesn't look any better than it did in 1985. There's a lot in the records that suggests someone's been screwing around with them."

"Corruption. Very nice," he replied. "For all we know, more crimes could be going unreported than ever, not to mention the gangs. What about Brooklyn? Queens?"

"Good friends tell me that police activity is tightening up in those sectors, but it's still not picture perfect."

"Doesn't have to be. Just need to find a place to work."

"We can clean up there, then there's the last district. It's been bothering me a lot since I've gone over it."

Rorschach grunted. "Which one? Staten Island? The Bronx?"

"Babylon," she answered. "That large section of the Bronx that was divided some years back. From what I hear, that place seems a lot worse than Detroit."

There was a sudden pause as she handed him a USB flash drive.

"These are some more secretive files I picked up as of late," she said. "I think it's more than just corruption. There have been a lot prisoner transfers from Sing Sing to Tartarus."

Tartarus Penitentiary was placed in a lone corner of the Babylon and was often infamous for its concentration of high-profile inmates. Veidt had assisted in the creation of the prison with some of his own funds.

"Whatever's happening in Babylon, I don't know yet. But it doesn't feel right."

Rorschach put the flash drive away. "Must investigate further."

He turned around, ready to leave, but she stepped forward. "Dan."

Dan stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. Diana walked up and put her arms around him, embracing the man who had saved her life.

"Thank you. For everything."

He returned her embrace briefly, then pushed her away just slightly so he could see her face.

"You're not alone," was all he said.

Rorschach walked over to the ledge and hooked himself on to the fire escape. He descended down the building and into the alleyways, disappearing off into the night, hunting for criminals who were unlucky enough to encounter him. She stood up on the ledge of that building, realizing that his last words had nearly taken her breath away, and she considered for a moment how much change had actually come into her life. For the first time, she felt free.

She yawned again. It was time for some sleep.

But she had never been more awake than she was now.

* * *

_Rorschach's Journal_

_ January 6__th__, 2010_

_ Discontinuing journal writings. In times where corruption plagues men and cities wither from malnutrition, action must be taken. Words are but lamentations of men who feel that they are powerless. Journals are written because men wish to be remembered; men who fear that they will be forgotten from history. Rorschach lives not through the journal, but through the actions of justice. I only wish to make this world more tolerable for the innocent. I owe them that much. And it concerns me not how long the path takes. I am content._

He tossed the journal into the burning trashcan. The homeless man next to him gave him a look of bewilderment, wondering why he'd toss such a thing away. Rorschach didn't acknowledge him, and instead walked around the corner of the street, where the scourge of nightlife would be sure to cause trouble. He walked among the enticing neon lights pasting the walls around him with vivid colors, blinking with the monstrous shadows of a lady of the night, her flamingo strut dancing around the corners of the street. The groans of the whores servicing less-than-respectable men were but echoes complementing the blaring orchestra of muffled house music and hip hop. The street was quite busy tonight, and as he walked, some of the prostitutes gave him a ridiculous stare, not recognizing who he was, while others backed away out of fear. They knew who Rorschach was. And he turned into a corner where he heard the calls of violence. A hand smacking the face. A switchblade popping out. Rorschach walked down the alleyway and spotted a man abusing his whore with a knife in his hand. He had alerted the predator. The whore, beaten and bloody, looked up and spotted Rorschach, shocked. The man turned around next.

Rorschach's inkblots froze. Another regular night, but it was enough.

**During my hiatuses from this story, I also toyed a lot with other ideas, but could never quite finish them. I am, however, planning a sequel to this one, which would focus on the noir aspect. I had planned a sequel involving Babylon for a year now, so I have some pretty good footing in the story direction. We'll see if I get anywhere with it, and if I do, I hope you guys'll read it, because it's going to be much better than this one, and less jumbled in details.**

**Hope you guys enjoyed my story, and if you want more, check out my other stories! There are some sucky ones that I've written in the past and some that I'm doing now. Follow me if you like my writing! It continues to evolve, and I want to share it with you guys.**


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